


The lights weren't that bright (but our eyes were tired)

by ElixirBB



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arson, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Healing, Intimidation, Kissing, Mental Abuse, Mentions of Blood, Modern times, Murder, PTSD, Physical Abuse, Self-Esteem Issues, Violence, au!, memories of abuse, mentions of violence against women, please heed the warnings, slow-burn, there is a little bit of sex, very coarse language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1560119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElixirBB/pseuds/ElixirBB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meet each other again, a year after the fire that tore so many lives apart, in the waiting area of the small office, struggling to find some sort of semblance of peace. </p>
<p>Sandor Clegane just wants to forget the memories of the flames. Sansa Stark just wants to forget the memories of her past. In between, the Elder Brother reminds them what it means to live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bestrafemich21](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bestrafemich21).



> This one is for bestrafemich21

_He can feel the heat from the flames as he watches it blaze in front of him. His heart beats thunderously in his chest and his ears echo with the cackling of the fire. The smell of smoke chokes him, but he’s entranced and terrified with the way the flames absorb the once large and brilliant house before him._

_There’s a burst, a small little explosion and instinctively he covers his face, his blood pounding through his veins and suddenly, the fire grows in its intensity._

_“Did you see that?!” Joffrey cackles._

_Sandor looks over at him and sees the way his face is twisted in a sadistic grin and he feels his stomach bottom out. His breath becomes labored and suddenly, all he can think about is when his brother grabbed his head and put his face to the flames. All he can remember is the smell of burning flesh and the pain that radiated through his body. All he can remember, all that he can see, all that haunts him, is the sound of his brother’s manic laugh as he squeezed him tighter and held his face in the fire longer. (He doesn’t remember passing out, but he does remember thinking that he’s dying and oddly, even at that young of an age, he welcomed death like a long lost friend.)_

_“What do you think, Hound? Is the fire as great as you remember it?”_

_He doesn’t say anything, just watches as the house burns (the house he set aflame.) He looks around, his eyes stopping at Blount and Trant and then on Joffrey who is watching the scene with glee and he turns around, walking the opposite way of them (away from the flames that threaten to consume him.) “Dog!” He hears Joffrey shriek. “Dog! Get back here! You chicken shit! You’re fired! You hear me? You’re fucking fired! I’ll kill you!”_

_He hears the sirens (too little too late, it’s always too late too late) as he makes his way away from the burning house and he looks at the people peeking through their blinds, their eyes transfixed on the flames._

_He can still feel the heat of the flames when he gets back to his apartment and no amount of alcohol helps ease the ache, helps ease the pain of being burned alive._

 

Sandor wakes with a start, an alarm blaring to his left. He lifts an arm and silences it, running his hand over his face and yawning. He swings his legs over the edge of his bed and stretches, cracking his neck, turning it left and then right. Taking a deep breath, he gets up and walks to the bathroom.

 

It’s still dark out, the sun just starting to peak over the horizon and Sandor knows by the time he leaves his apartment, the sky will be tinged with pink. He grips the broken porcelain sink and splashes cold water on his face, brushing his teeth and avoiding the mirror (he’s become a multi-tasker, had to become one, since his brother decided to scar him for life.)

 

It doesn’t take him long to finish his morning routine and he walks into the kitchen, flipping on the television grabbing a box of cereal from the cabinet and milk from the fridge. He has a spoon halfway to his mouth when his eyes catch a familiar face on television.

 

_“Stannis Baratheon, the late Senator Robert Baratheon’s eldest brother, victim of a vicious arson attack by unknown perpetrators, has released a statement, stating that he will not give in to the bullying and that he will continue to run for Senate against late Senator Baratheon’s eldest son, Joffrey. It’s been well documented that there is no love lost between the Baratheon siblings and it seems to be escalating to uncle and nephew. More will follow the progression of the Baratheon power struggle for a seat in the Senate.”_

 

Suddenly, the cereal in his mouth tastes like ash and he leaves the bowl on the kitchen counter, grabbing his keys and leaving his apartment, shutting the television off on his way out.  

 

(It doesn’t help; he still sees their faces, still hears the cackling and roaring of the fire, still feels the heat of the flames. He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until he gets to his truck and struggles to put the keys in the ignition. He gives up and leans against his seat, taking in deep breaths, until he thinks he can finally breathe again.)

* * *

_Jorah Mormont is a friend of his from when they were younger and in a fit of desperation, when he’s finally out of a job and has no way to support himself, he calls him and asks him if he knows_  of  _anything, anything at all_.

 

_The other man is quiet on the line, until he finally lets out a breath. “Did you quit or were you fired?” He asks him._

_“What does that have to do with fuck all?” Sandor explodes, his fury tightening in his chest, flames dancing before his eyes._

_Jorah falls silent again after his outburst and then he sighs, “the Baratheon fire…that was you, wasn’t it?”_

_Sandor feels the pit of his stomach churn with bile and he looks away, pulls the phone from his ear and sucks in a deep breath. It’s only because Jorah has been there for him for years, it’s only because when Jorah’s wife left him for someone younger, someone richer, Sandor offered his couch until he got himself on his feet and away from the whispers that seemed to follow his every move. It’s only because Jorah has never, not once, judged him for what he’s done, what he’s become and understands the turmoil and fear and anxiety, silently eating away at his soul, that he confesses the truth, because he knows Jorah and he knows that Jorah won’t say a fucking word. “Yeah. It was me. I left. Too little too late, but I left.”_

_Jorah lets out a breath and Sandor can imagine him running a hand through his thinning hair. “`Bout fucking time.” He says honestly. “I’ll see what I can get you at the construction company. You’re a big guy. I’ll vouch for you. I’m not making any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”_

_They hang up after that, the thank you unsaid, but both of them know it’s there._

 

_(The next morning he has an interview with Daenerys Targaryen, CEO of K.D. Construction. She asks him few questions and he answers plainly, bluntly and she laughs, and hires him on the spot. Before he leaves, she holds up her hand and looks at him, eyes straying to his mass of gnarled flesh. Her expression morphs to one of empathy and to a certain degree pity and he wants to spit at her feet and tell her that he doesn’t need pity, and wonders idly what Jorah has told her about him. “You have a kind soul, Mr. Clegane. Broken and burned but kind. I think you’ll fit in just fine.” He wants to tell her to drop the Mr. that he’s never been the type for titles, but he just nods and leaves the office, fists shaking.)_

 

“You’re here early.” Jorah comments, as he walks into the work trailer that he, Jorah and Bronn share.

 

“Gotta leave early.” Sandor grunts, as he looks over schedules and plans.

 

Jorah nods and clears his throat, “how’s that…how’s it going?”

 

Sandor lifts his head and stares at him until Jorah shakes his head, stifling a laugh and holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just trying to look after you. Returning the favor and all that.”

 

Sandor doesn’t bother to tell him that the favor has been repaid a thousand times over ever since Jorah helped him land this job.

 

K.D. Construction has been good to him. He enjoys working with his hands, using them for things other than intimidation and murder. He enjoys the callousness and roughness of his hands, and for the most part, he likes the people he works with. Most of the younger men and women don’t bother him much and listen to him when he tells them to do something. They’re all terrified of him, terrified of his scars and the way he snarls and snaps but Sandor thinks it’s better to put the fear of God into them than be soft and kind.

 

(He knows where being soft and kind gets people, it gets them beaten bloodied and bruised and all too soon, his mind wanders to his memories of a young woman with hair the color of fire and eyes the color of a summer’s clear sky and he remembers her cries and her pleas but most of all, he remembers doing nothing when her eyes sought out his and silently begged him to end her suffering. To help her.)

 

“`-dor. Hello? Sandor?  _Jesus fuck_ , are you hung-over?” Bronn asks, snapping his fingers in front of his face.

 

“Bronn,” Sandor rasps, jolting out of his memory, “if you don’t get your fucking fingers out of my face, I’m going to fucking break them.”

 

Bronn rolls his eyes and walks around to his own desk, settling into his chair and putting his feet on the desk, leaning back, with his hands behind his head. “I’ve only been calling your name for the last  _five minutes_.”

 

“Thirty seconds.” Jorah corrects as he types something on the computer.

 

“Whatever. Anyways, have we heard anything on that development build?”

 

Jorah shakes his head. “Should hear by the end of the week, beginning of next week, I think.” He sighs, flipping through papers, “Sandor, do you-”

 

“They’ll have it done by today, or if something goes to complete and utter shit, tomorrow by lunch. I’ve drilled it in them that we have a timeline and we’re making pretty good time.”

 

Bronn lets out a laugh, “those kids are fucking terrified of you.”

 

Sandor stands up and rolls his shoulders, swiping Bronn’s feet off the desk roughly and causing him into stumble in the desk, a curse falling from his lips. “At least I get shit done.”

 

“I get shit done!” Bronn hollers as Sandor leaves the trailer.

 

“No, you don’t.” Jorah answers.

 

He lets the door slam shut behind him, breathing in crisp air. The sky has lost its pinkness and the clouds have parted, the sun already shining and Sandor knows the heat will get to them later on. He knows that he’ll be cranky and his temper will be foul, but for now, he lets his eyes wander and he stares at the small group of people anxiously waiting for him.

 

“Alright you little shits,” he calls out, his voice rumbling, “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

 

(As they all scurry about their jobs, coming up to Sandor, asking questions and informing him on progress, he almost,  _almost_ , forgets about his past and present and what seems like a bleak future.)

* * *

The receptionist when he walks in nods at him and points to an empty chair, as she chats into the phone. She can barely stand to look at him for more than a few seconds (he finds that hardly anyone can stare at him for longer than a few seconds, just long enough for the horror to sink in and then they look away, only to look back again in morbid fascination. He snaps at people who do that and on more than one occasion he’s made people cry. He refuses to feel bad about it.)

 

The door opens and a man he’s never seen before comes out, Kleenex gripped tightly in his hands and he leaves, head bowed, not looking at anyone.

 

An older man pops his head around the doorframe and smiles warmly at Sandor. “Sandor, come in. Come in.”

 

He doesn’t spare a glance to the receptionist and instead, shuts the door behind him as he enters the room.

 

“How have you been, Sandor?” The Elder Brother asks him.

 

_When he’s younger, long after accepting his face would never be the same, his father takes him to an old friend, a monk with a doctorate in psychiatry. “You think I’m crazy?” Sandor asks his father._

_His father shakes his head, “no. I just think you’re angry.”_

_He stays silent for three sessions with the man his father calls the Elder Brother and the man for his part, doesn’t say anything. Just stares back at him, no judgment on his face. On his fourth session, Sandor takes a seat on the leather couch and blows out a breath, hair flying in his face. “My brother burned half my face off.”_

_“You’re brother is deeply disturbed.”_

_“He’s a fucking psycho.”_

_It’s raining on his last session with the Elder Brother. “I’m ready.”_

_The Elder Brother doesn’t agree nor disagree. “I’m always here for you Sandor.”_

 

(Which is why, when he’s one drink shy of alcohol poisoning, decades and some odd years later, he dials a distant but always present number and waits for him to pick up. “I wasn’t ready.” Sandor slurs. “I don’t think I was ever ready.” The Elder Brother gives him an appointment the next afternoon and he’s been going to him since.)

 

“Working.” Sandor grunts, folding his hands and leaning against the leather couch.

 

“How is the job?”

 

“Good. It’s good. Jorah and Bronn are good men to work with.”

 

“You’ve known them for quite some time, correct?” The Elder Brother asks.

 

“Jorah since I was a kid and Bronn, for about seven years.”

 

“You trust them, then.”

 

“I don’t trust anyone.”

 

The Elder Brother nods and looks at him, head cocking to the side and expression unreadable. It sometimes unnerves him, how he can’t read the Elder Brother’s expressions. He’s always been able to read people before. He’s always able to fish out a lie and the good from the bad ( _previous employees not withstanding_ , he thinks to himself.) But for a long time, Sandor has never been able to fully trust anyone. It’s not a family trait, not trusting other people.

 

(The last person to trust someone in his family was his younger sister and she trusted that Gregor wouldn’t hurt her. “ _We’re family and he wouldn’t hurt me. Not really.”_ She was right. Gregor didn’t hurt her. Instead, he killed her.)

 

“I watched the news today.” The Elder Brother says conversationally. The double meaning behind his statement is blatant.

 

“Yeah? I did too.” He thinks this is why he likes the Elder Brother. Where others skirt around the topic of the Baratheon’s and anything that has to do with his past life, the Elder Brother meets him head on. He doesn’t hide behind anything, doesn’t try to baby him, doesn’t try to avoid the demons that Sandor keeps hidden and locked away.

 

“What first came to your mind when you saw him on television?”

 

 _Honestly_? He remembers wishing that Gregor had killed him that day, so long ago. He remembers wishing that Stannis would beat the shit out of him, because Sandor knows, he  _knows_ , that Stannis knows who was behind the burning of his house. He remembers wishing that Stannis had kept out of politics. He remembers wishing he never took that fucking job with the Baratheon’s. He remembers wishing the floor would swallow him whole.

 

He leans forward, elbows on his knees and looks at the Elder Brother, “I remember thinking,  _I hope he beats that little shit Joffrey_.”

 

(He remembers wishing that as well. But most of all, he remembers wishing that he would stop being haunted by fire and flames. He’s been burned enough for one lifetime.)

* * *

When he walks back into the waiting area, he stops dead in his tracks, his eyes landing on a young woman with familiar red hair (the color of fire) and blue eyes (the color of a summer’s clear sky.) She’s biting her lip (a habit he knows she has whenever she’s anxious) and wringing her hands, legs crossed at the ankles.

 

She’s wearing a long, light pink dress and a jean jacket thrown on top and his chest constricts when she looks up, startled at the sound of the door opening. Her eyes land on him and widen in surprise, mouth falling open. She doesn’t break eye contact with him and she lifts her hand, long, slim fingers twitching in half a wave.

 

He can feel the Elder Brother behind him and he peers around his side. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Sansa.”

 

She smiles and it’s bright, but forced, “that’s alright.” She chirps, her voice soft and just as he remembers it. “I can wait.”

 

 _Didn’t she just cross his mind today_? Albeit, he’ll admit to himself that she generally  _always_  crosses his mind, at least once a day, but today,  _today_ , he let his memory roam, trying to remember the disintegrating image he has of her. (His memory doesn’t do her justice. She’s more beautiful than he remembers.)

 

He walks over to the receptionist, aware of her eyes following him, as he books another appointment. He thinks that he should leave. Just leave and never come back.  _God. Fuck. It’s been what? Ten months? A year?_  Since he last saw the Stark girl? The last he heard, she went back north to visit her older brother and cousin and he remembers thinking,  _good for her. The little bird got away_.

 

Only for the stupid girl to come back.

 

He turns around to leave, trying to erase her from his thoughts, and his hand is on the doorknob, so close to being free and leaving her oppressive presence when he feels a small hand on his bicep. He looks down and the first thing he sees are nails painted a light pink and long thin fingers, attached to an unblemished hand. (Her hand doesn’t belong on him. It looks wrong. Where her hand is pale, his arm is tanned from being outside all day. Where her hand is soft, his entire body is hard, full of rough and pointy edges. Where she’s beautiful, he’s a monster and broken…but then, he supposes, she’s a little broken too.)

 

She opens her mouth to say something, when the Elder Brother sticks his head out. “Sansa? I’m ready. Are you?”

 

Her face falls and a sort of desperation floods her blue eyes and he recognizes the fear in them. Her hand tightens around his arm and she looks up at him. “Stay.” She blurts out. “Please.” She adds politely. She’s always been so polite. Even when they were beating her black and blue ( _“please,” she begs, “please, stop. I’m sorry. Just please stop.”)_

 

He should shrug off her hand. He should leave and never come back. He should tell her that he’s _not_  someone she should be around because after  _everything_  she’s been through, he’s the  _last_  person she should be around. He should snarl and snap at her like he used to when they first met and she was an impressionable young girl, in love with evil incarnate masking as a young golden haired boy.

 

But he doesn’t do any of that; because he  _remembers_  seeing her eyes flood with fear and despair. He  _remembers_  wiping away blood from her split lips and telling her softly to go along with what Joffrey says ( _it’ll be easier one you,_  he remembers telling her,  _just tell him what he wants to hear.)_  He  _remembers_  the small smiles and how she would sometimes defy Joffrey and rise with fierceness until he had it beat out of her and into submission. Instead, when he opens his mouth, Sandor Clegane damns them both to deepest pit of hell, and says, “okay.”

 

She smiles a relieved little smile at him, squeezes his arm for reassurance once more and then turns around, walking into the room, giving him one last look before the door closes and hides her away from him.

 

(He was never able to say  _no_  to Sansa Stark. This, he knows, will be his downfall.


	2. Part 2

_She doesn’t realize what’s happening until she’s on the floor. Her eyes widening, her mind racing,_ why did you open your mouth? _Joffrey is wiping her blood off his ring and Sansa hesitantly and shakily brings her fingers to her lip, wincing at how it’s already swelling and the pain that’s radiating through her body. She stays on the ground, head bowed in a submissive manner, watches as her hand falls back to her side and she doesn’t even realize she’s clenching her fists until her nails dig into the palm of her hands._

_It’s not the first time he hits her. It’s not the first time Blount or Trant hit her. (It’s not the first time that Sandor Clegane, watches, his large hands clenching into tight fists and rage burning through his eyes. He doesn’t do anything. Not in front of Joffrey and Sansa can’t find it in her to resent him for his caution.)_

_“You’re nothing but a stupid little bitch.” Joffrey spits at her and Sansa flinches. “A little bitch that’s going to die alone and scarred.” He laughs loudly and looks towards the corner, where Sandor is standing, “look Dog, she’ll match you scar for fucking scar.”_

At least I won’t match you _, Sansa thinks wildly. She stumbles into a sitting position and breathes deeply._

_“You think I wouldn’t find out?!” Joffrey screeches. “That you’re talking about me behind my back? Do you honestly think I’m so stupid Sansa, that I wouldn’t find out?”_

_Sansa should know by now to shut her mouth, but she stupidly,_ so stupidly _, tells Margaery Tyrell that she appreciates Stannis Baratheon’s views and his policies and his conviction. She stupidly,_ so stupidly _, thought Margaery was her friend. And then her friend tells Joffrey. (“It was an accident.” Margaery stutters, fear evident in her voice for Sansa, “it just blurted out, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Leave. Leave. Sansa, leave now. I’ll meet you in-” Margaery never does finish her sentence, because Sansa is out the door the moment Margaery tells her she let it slip, only to come face to face with Joffrey and her tormentors. Her phone is ruined in the process, Margaery’s insistent yells cutting off mid-sentence.)_

_She doesn’t say anything. She refuses to say anything. She’s tired of having to explain herself. She’s tired of lying to herself and to everyone else. She’s tired of apologizing for things she isn’t even sorry for._

_He was going to let her go, disgusted of looking at her, he lets it slip that he’s planning on setting fire to Stannis Baratheon’s house and all Sansa can think about is how Stannis Baratheon’s daughter is Bran and Rickon’s friend and how she’s so young and smiles despite the scar marring her face. “No!” Sansa shrieks as she lashes out at Joffrey, slapping him and clawing at him. She doesn’t realize what she’s done until suddenly the wind is knocked out of her and she’s on the floor, holding her stomach._

_(She thinks this is death and instead of being terrified, instead of begging for one more day, one more chance, she welcomes it, like a long lost friend.)_

_“Enough.” The voice is raspy and gruff and suddenly she feels a shadow standing between her and Blount and Trant. “Enough.” He says this to Joffrey._

_Miraculously, Joffrey rolls his eyes and waves his hand. “I’ve had my fill of her.” He jeers at her. “You’re damaged goods anyways.” Sansa winces, partly from his words and partly from the death grip that Sandor has on her arm when he hauls her up and drags her through the house, reaching the front door and pushing her out of it. “You’re free, little bird. You’re free. Leave. Just leave before they clip your wings and kill you.”_

_Sansa’s throat feels dry and it aches and she looks at him and wonders idly, if her eyes are as hollow as her soul. “You should have let them kill me.”_

_His face morphs into one of sadness and surprise but she takes the escape offered to her and limps to her car, fumbling with the keys as she turns it on, speeding through the streets, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip, to keep from crying out with pain._

_When she finally reaches her house, she stumbles out of the car and through the front door, crying out. Her mother races to the front entrance, takes one look at her and yells for her father. It’s a storm of footfalls from there and through the chaos, she hears Rob and Jon rage, she hears Rickon cry, hears Arya curse, hears Bran’s chair as he wheels in, she leans into her mother’s shoulder and then she feels her father’s strong hands cupping her face. “You need to stop them.” She gasps out. “They’re going to kill them.”_

_The house falls silent. “Kill who? Sansa? Honey, what’s happening? Who did this to you?”_

_“Joffrey.” She says through gritted teeth, “he’s going to set Stannis Baratheon’s house on fire. He’s going to kill them.” She turns her head and looks at her younger brothers. “I tried to stop them…I don’t…I can’t…”_

_“It’s fine.” Her father says, gathering her into his chest. “It’s fine.”_

_She feels herself nod and then closes her eyes, body succumbing to the darkness while listening to her father’s thunderous heartbeat._

 

“Sansa?” A voice whispers through her darkened room and Sansa’s eyes fly open, adjusting to the darkness. She makes out the lithe form of her sister and she puts a hand to her chest, trying to steady her rapidly beating heart.

 

“What’s wrong?” Sansa asks, her head turning around and glancing at her phone as the screen illuminates the time. It’s a little past three in the morning. She yawns and looks expectantly at where her sister stands.

 

Arya shuffles her feet. “You were whimpering.” She says after a few moments of silence.

 

Sansa shuffles onto the far end of the bed, lifts the covers and Arya dives underneath them, curling into the fetal position, facing her.

 

“Do you still dream about _him_?” Arya asks, her voice hardening at the last word.

 

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

 

She can feel the anger roll off of Arya. “I thought the sessions helped.”

 

“They did.” Sansa concedes. “And then I stopped and they came back.” She lets out a bitter laugh and feels the telltale signs of tears stinging her eyes. “I can’t even help myself. I’m weak.” _You’re nothing but a pathetic, weak, little bitch. You’re damaged goods. You’re worthless._

 

“Stop it.” Arya snaps. “You are _not_ weak.”

 

She and her sister have a complex relationship. Even though they don’t get along half the time, they’re extremely protective of each other and sometimes; Sansa doesn’t know how she would have survived the past year without her sister. Sansa reaches out and grabs her hand, squeezing it tightly, the _thank you_ , unsaid but lingering between them.

 

Arya shifts and lies on her back, “will you promise me something?”

 

After everything her younger sister has done for her, Sansa thinks she would promise her the sun and the moon and the stars. “Anything.”

 

“Go back to counseling. Get some help. I don’t…I mean…” she huffs and breathes out, blow a raspberry, “I hate seeing you like this. I want…I need my big sister back. Please.”

 

_If I wasn’t crying before, I’m crying now_. Sansa nods through her tears, sniffling and wiping her face with her other hand. She said _please_ ; Arya never says _please_. “I promise.” Sansa says softly.

 

They lapse into silence, allowing sleeping to overcome them, their clasped hands, in the space between them.

* * *

“Sansa, can you hand me the frozen peas from the freezer?” Her mother calls out from her spot near the sink.

 

Sansa nods, even though her mother can’t see her and opens the freezer, shivering when the cold air hits her body. She reaches in, grabs the bag of peas and her heart quickens staring at it.

 

It’s not the same bag. She knows it’s _not_ , but she can’t help but stare at it.

 

_“Here.” He says to her gruffly. “It’s better than ice.”_

_She takes the offered bag of peas and presses it to her ribs gently, jolting when the coldness touches her skin. “Thank you sir.” She says quietly._

_“I’m no fucking sir, girl.”_

And I’m not a girl. Not anymore _, she thinks sadly. She doesn’t say anything to him. Just nods and prays that Joffrey doesn’t waltz through the doors._

 

“Sansa?” Her mother’s voice pulls her out of her memory and when Sansa turns around, she notices her mother staring at her worriedly. “Darling, are you alright?”

 

“Fine.” She says quickly. At her mother’s look, Sansa’s shoulders drop and she pushes the freezer door shut with her hip, placing the bag on the counter in front of her mother. “Just got lost in my thoughts.” She forces a smile and shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”

 

Her mother nods, “are you nervous about seeing the Elder Brother again?”

 

_“Who is he?” Sansa asks her father, her voice hitching._

_“It’s alright Sansa.” Her father says to her calmly. “He’s a family friend. He’s…he’s dealt with situations like this before.”_

_“You mean girls like me.”_

_Her father closes his eyes, as if struck and he lets out a breath. “He’s a good man. He…he helped me when Lyanna died.”_

_Sansa nods hesitantly. “Okay.”_

_(True enough, the Elder Brother is an older man, one who she thinks resembles a grandfather, she sinks into the leather couch and doesn’t say anything. She just sobs and he lets her.)_

 

“No.” Sansa replies truthfully. “I think it’ll be a good thing. For me, I mean.”

 

Her mother smiles slightly, eyes softening and she comes around, her arms outstretched and hugs her, her hands cradling the back of Sansa’s head and Sansa sighs, leaning into her mother’s embrace and breathing in her familiar scent. “I love you.” Her mother breathes into her hair.

 

“I love you too.” Sansa mumbles softly into her mother’s shoulder.

* * *

The sun is shining brilliantly, when she parks her car near a coffee shop and walks the rest of the way to her appointment. It’s not far, just a five-minute walk, but in the heat, it feels more like twenty. She concentrates on making her way to the building, dodging people and apologizing when she bumps into an older woman carrying a briefcase and talking into her phone. The woman shrugs her off and continues walking and Sansa shakes her head and quickens her pace, eager to get out of the sun and the oppressive mass of bodies that make her feel like she’s being swallowed whole.

 

She lets out a breath when she enters the air-conditioned, slightly worn down building and takes her sunglasses off her face, eyes squinting against the sudden shift in light and she tosses her sunglasses in their case and throws them back into her bag.

 

She walks up the two flights of stairs, down a hallway and stands in front of a familiar door, memories of the last time she was here overwhelming her. She doesn’t realize she’s held in her breath until she suddenly exhales, coughing up air. She presses her hands in the valley between her breasts and massages her chest, trying to ease her anxiety and pain. Her hand is shaking when she puts it on the doorknob and turns it, pushing the door open and closing it quietly.

 

“Hi.” She says to the receptionist (she’s young and new and Sansa vaguely remembers the other receptionist and her bulging stomach and Sansa wonders if she gave birth yet), her voice bright and so very fake to her ears, “I’m here to see-”

 

“Sansa Stark?” The receptionist interrupts her, not unkindly, her brown eyes twinkling as she gives her a wan smile. “Elder Brother is with a client right now, but just take a seat.”

 

“Thank you.” Sansa says primly and takes a seat in the corner, crossing her legs at her ankles and leaning against the wall for support.

 

_It looks the same,_ she realizes, she recognizes the numerous books lining the shelves. She recognizes the old wooden table in the middle. She recognizes the same paintings by artists long dead and gone and Sansa squints at them, trying to put her art history class to good use. But most of all, Sansa recognizes the smell; a vague scent of incense followed by sandalwood. She breathes it in deeply and recalls being a child and being forced to go to Church on Sundays. Mostly though, she remembers breaking out into giggles with Arya as Robb, Jon whisper and pull faces at one another.

 

She doesn’t realize she’s closed her eyes until she opens them at the sound of a door opening.

 

Her breath catches in her throat as she stares at the intimidating figure looming in the doorway, frozen in place when his eyes land on her.

 

She considers it odd (or maybe it’s a sign of her growing up) that her first glance isn’t to the scars that mar half his face. No, instead, she lands on his eyes, his gray eyes, swirling with recognition and remorse, maybe even a little bit of guilt. Without her knowledge, her hands plant themselves in her lap and she wrings them together until her bones hurt and she gnaws at her bottom lip out of habit.

 

_“Thank you, sir.”_

_“I’m no fucking sir, little bird.”_

 

(He’s crudest man she has ever met but she finds he’s also one of gentlest. At least with her. _Always_ with her. The only bruise he ever gave her was in his haste to get her to leave, leave and never come back. _You’re free, little bird.)_

 

“I’ll be with you in a moment, Sansa.” The Elder Brother says, leaning around Sandor Celgane’s body.

 

She gives him a smile, “That’s all right, I can wait.”

 

It’s as if the sound of her voice unfreezes him and he walks towards the receptionist stiffly, his back to her.

 

Sansa continues to bite at her lip and stares at his back. She can see the muscle tense underneath his shirt and she takes in his attire. His jeans are dusty and dirty, his shoes large and in the same state, his shirt sticking to his body, matted in dry sweat. He seems so much bigger than she remembers him and she’s almost giddy when she realizes that she isn’t afraid of him. (She’s never been afraid him, not really.)

 

(She wonders what he’s doing here and then she wonders if Joffrey broke him like he broke her.)

 

Sansa loves her family. Truly, she does and she honestly believes that without them, she wouldn’t have survived this past year but despite everything, despite their constant support and despite their patience, she can see their frustration in regards to her actions. She knows they love her, she knows they would do anything for her but she also knows that they don’t _understand_ her. That they can _never understand_ her and what she’s been through.

 

_But he does. He’s always understood._

 

She can see him get ready to leave, his hand on the doorknob and it’s barely a second when she catapults out of her seat and places her hand on his bicep (she feels him tense and clench his muscles and she can feel them jump at her touch.) She can see from her peripheral vision, the receptionist, staring at them with unrepentant curiosity and interest.

 

Maybe it’s because he’s never _actually_ hurt her. Maybe it’s because he’s never lied to her. Maybe because when she was being beaten and insulted and made to feel worthless, she would feel compelled to look at him, look at his eyes, at his grey eyes swirling with remorse, maybe even a little guilt, an incredible amount of rage and suddenly, she could take the beatings and the insults because he would ground her. And maybe it’s because there is a sort of desperation twisting inside of her to be near someone who _gets_ it that she keep her hand on him, trying to transfer some of his strength to her. _It is desperation_ , she thinks, because she’s scared of him leaving and her never seeing him again, because she left once and he stayed and she thinks that has to mean something. Even though he’s her connection to a life she would rather forget, he’s the only part of that life that made her feel safe.

 

It’s in that moment she commands him (she’s past the point of asking), in a soft voice, “stay.” And then after a moment, she adds, “please.”

 

She can see the war dancing behind his eyes and she sees the way his jaw ticks but he sighs and relents, “okay.”

 

“Sansa.” The Elder Brother calls out gently. “Are you ready.”

 

“Yes.” She says. “I’m ready.” (She speaks to the Elder Brother but her eyes never leave Sandor’s.)

* * *

“I didn’t know Sandor Clegane came to see you.” Sansa says as soon as she takes a seat on the leather couch. The seat underneath her warm is and Sansa sinks into the couch, inhaling the familiar scent of him.

 

The Elder Brother looks at her over his glasses. “You know I’m not allowed to talk about my other clients, Sansa.”

 

Sansa winces and mentally slaps her forehead. “I know.” She blurts out. “I didn’t…that’s not what I meant.”

 

The Elder Brother gives her a small grin. “Sansa,” he says, his voice suddenly serious and he leans forward, eyes never leaving hers. “Are you okay?”

 

Sansa can feel her face drop and she can feel her shoulders slump. “I keep on having these dreams, memories really. He…He _haunts_ me….” She confesses everything to the Elder Brother and he listens, nodding and interjecting in between.

 

Before she knows it, her eyes are swollen and raw, her throat aching and her time almost up. She leans back into the couch, trying to immerse herself in the deteriorating scent of Sandor.

 

“He was there, wasn’t he?” The Elder Brother hesitantly asks, his voice soft but strong. It’s posed as a question but Sansa knows he knows the answer.

 

She doesn’t even have to ask whom he’s referring to. Instead, she nods, hair falling into her face. “He was always there.”

 

“Does he scare you?”

 

“He used to.” Sansa admits, wiping at her face with the rough fabric of her jean jacket.

 

“But not anymore?”

 

She clenches the leather beneath her and she shakes her head vigorously. “No.” She says. “No. He…he…helped me. Saved me even.”

 

(Sandor Clegane set Sansa Stark free and the tragic thing in all of this is that she never recognized it until she was hundreds of miles away and she never even got to _thank_ him. Not really.)

* * *

Her heart is pounding when she steps back into the waiting room and then it falls to the pit of her stomach when she sees it empty, save for an unnamed man occupying one of the chairs.

 

The receptionist looks up and her eyes soften into a form of pity as she stares at her. Sansa clears her throat, turns her head around and thanks the Elder Brother (she can see his eyes wander around the bare waiting room and _is it just me or did he just frown?_ Disappointment stretches across his face until it disappears and Sansa is left believing she just imagined it.) She books another appointment, the receptionist gently forcing next Wednesday on her and Sansa absentmindedly takes it, thanking her and wishing her well.

 

She walks out the room, closing the door behind her and closes her eyes, leaning against the wood, struggling to focus on breathing.

 

_“Stay. Please.”_

_“Okay.”_

It’s not like she blames him for leaving. She’s part of his past that she’s sure he would rather forget. She doesn’t even think he knows he’s the part of her past she only ever wants to remember.

 

She opens her eyes and staggers back, biting back a rare curse as she sees a looming figure across from her.

 

He’s leaning against the wall, one foot propped against it. His eyes are glued to her, roaming over her face and body, as if memorizing her.

 

She feels something in her explode and her fingers twitch against her legs. “You stayed.”

 

“You asked.”

 

She nods; her throat suddenly feeling dry and her mind becomes a jumbled mess of things she wants to say. “Do you want to grab a cup of coffee?” She blurts out. _Oh God._ She feels mortified by the volume of her voice. She can feel her face flush and she continues to lean back against the door, hoping it will just swallow her and save her from the embarrassment.

 

She hears a slight guffaw and when she looks up, she sees his shoulders shaking with silent amusement. “The little bird wants to grab a cup of coffee with the Hound, is that it?” He reiterates and there is something dark, something bitter, almost sad, lacing his voice.

 

Sansa grows irritated, “you are _not_ a Hound.” She snaps and then she collects herself and refuses to acknowledge how her heart beats faster when she sees the small look of surprise and maybe even pride, flit across his face. “And yes. I want to get some coffee. With you. That is…I mean…if you would like to.” _Jesus_. She can’t do anything right, can she?

 

“Sure.” He says, running a hand over his face, his body slumping in defeat. “Okay.”

 

“Okay.” Sansa repeats and then she pushes herself away from the door and they silently walk down the hallway, down the flight of stairs and to the front door of the building. Her hand is on the handle when she stops, eyes adjusting to the sun and the mass of people still walking to their destination. She can feel the heat of his body behind her and she can feel the ghost of his fingertips against her back. She pushes the door open and walks into the crowd, Sandor Clegane walking next to her.

 

( _You’re free, little bird. You’re free.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two is complete! THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH! Seriously, you’re response means a lot to me and I’m just thankful that you guys seem to like this! 
> 
> HUGE SHOUTOUT: everyone who has favorited/kudos’d/bookmarked/followed, it means so much to me!! I've tried responding to everyone but if I missed anyone I apologize profusely! Seriously thank you all so much! 
> 
> Again, any mistakes are mine and mine alone. I apologize if they offend anyone. Reviews feed the soul. 
> 
> MAD LOVE AND RESPECT,   
> BB


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For bestrafemich21

It’s only when he takes the seat across from her, his form hulking in the too small chair and even smaller table, his knees bumping into hers and sees the instant blush and shy smile flit across her face, that he realizes he’s _filthy_.

 

She’s prim and proper, light pink with fire for hair and bright blue eyes and he’s rough, dust and dirt covering his jeans and work boots, his shirt stained with sweat marks, half of his face burnt and she’s _smiling_ like they’re on some sort of first fucking date.

 

_Jesus,_ he’s not only _physically_ filthy but he’s _mentally_ disgusting as well. He’s seen her beaten, bruised and bloodied and all he can think about, all that rushes through his head is the way her teeth gnaw at her bottom lip and how she is so incredibly _tiny_ in comparison to him. _I could crush her_ , he thinks to himself, she’s fragile and delicate and breakable (but he never broke her. He never hit her. Except for the time he _did_ put his hands on her, pushing her out and away from the life she had no business getting involved in and he remembers the way she flinches, he remembers the way her thin arms felt in his bone crushing grip and he can remember seeing the bruises already form as soon as he let go.)

 

His black coffee is burning his hands from its heat and he looks at her, her hair curling with the heat and he sees her cup, full of something red and slushy, condensation leaving a puddle in the shape of the bottom rim.

 

“So,” she says, breaking the silence between them, “how have you been?” It’s softly asked and with real interest.

 

It infuriates him.

 

“You want to know how the Dog has been?” Sandor scoffs, his voice snarling, face twisting in an even uglier state than it’s usually in. _Do you want to know about fire? About how I feel it every single fucking day? Do you want to know that I replay that night every single fucking day?_ (He doesn’t think about which night he means, the night he was burned and the night he watched Stannis Baratheon’s house burn haunt him both equally, triggering something vicious and stifling in himself that he thought had long since been smothered out.)

 

Her fingers spread the dew from her cup around, making inane shapes with the water. “The Elder Brother says talking-”

 

“Fuck the Elder Brother.” He snaps, his voice rising and he refuses to be ashamed at the sudden looks he’s getting from the other patrons. He refuses to meet their eyes as they finally see his face and gasp, looking away and then back at him again, as if reassuring themselves he’s real. That his burnt face is real.

 

“Then why are you seeing him?” Sansa snaps back, her eyes filled with fury and he oddly feels proud of her in that moment and he can see the long way she’s come and he wonders if the north did her as good as he believes it did.

 

He runs a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair and watches her as she keeps eye contact with him (since when did his little bird start look him in the face without flinching?) He owes no one an explanation. He’s gone his entire life doing things his way, not letting anyone close enough to see everything he hides. He’s been twice cursed by fire, the first destroying his life, morphing him into the beast he is and the second destroying what was left of his sanity. _No_ , he thinks, _I’ve given enough, I owe no one anything._

 

Except, that’s not _entirely_ true, _is it_? His eyes never stray away from Sansa’s. They’re still the bright blue he remembers (and he thinks if he looks at them enough, he’ll drown, she’ll be the death him, this little bird who has suffered and gone through so much and still manages to reach out to one of her past tormentors. He never did anything to her, never raised a hand to her physically, and somehow, he thinks that’s worse), her eyes are still silently defiant and still looking at him, awaiting his answer.

 

(In the back of his mind, he hears the cackling of fire and he hears the hiss as everything burns to the ground and he feels the heat and he hears something keen and wail and with a shock, he recognizes it as her voice as Blount and Trant’s feet connect with her stomach.)

 

He never should have waited for her.

 

When he left the waiting area, unable to handle the receptionist’s stare and curious glances, he should have kept walking down the hall, down the stairs and out the front doors, blending into the mass of people. He should not have waited outside the door like a lost dog (but that’s all he is, a dog, waiting for his new master), but he did and nothing could stop the clenching of his stomach and chest at her radiant smile and breathy, “you stayed,” mind going in a dozen directions that it _shouldn’t_ be going in.

 

“Why do you care, girl?” He leans forward, his face twisting in anger. He’s close enough to smell her drink on her breath, it smells of lemons and strawberries and it’s _intoxicating_. “Do you expect me to bare my soul so that it can make you feel better about staying with that little shit when you should have been smart and left? Do you want to feel vindicated? Or are you pretending to actually give a flying fuck about an old dog like me, just to make yourself seem righteous?”

 

_It’s instinctive,_ he thinks, as he watches her eyes pool with unshed tears and the way her body deflates and the way her bottom lip trembles and how she tries to stop it by clenching down on it hard with her teeth, _to be such a fucking asshole._

 

(She’s a fragile little thing and he’s hardened by his years that surpass hers. And it’s all he knows what to do, be an asshole and shatter the breakable.)

 

“You’re being cruel.” She states the obvious, her hands in her lap and even away from his eyes, he knows she’s wringing them.

 

He _is_ being cruel, he concedes, but it’s for her own good. He’s _not_ a good man. A good man would have put a stop to her beatings before they even started. A good man would have swept her away in the middle of the night, making sure that she never returned. A good man would not have set fire to a man’s house with him and his daughter _still inside of it_. _No_ , Sandor Clegane is many things, a murderer, a victim, an enforcer, but he is _not a good man._

 

“That’s life. It’s a cruel bitch, taking everything away from you and then leaving you for dead. You of all people should know that.”

 

She sucks in a deep breath, stands up, scraping the legs of her chair against the floor and grabbing her bag, slinging it over her shoulders. She doesn’t say anything, but he sees the way she shakes and the way she’s clenching her jaw, that she’s minutes (seconds) from breaking down.

 

She doesn’t say anything, just walks by him and then pauses when she’s directly next to him, “I never _once_ thought of you that way. As a dog or hound, or anything else they called you.” Sansa confesses. “You were crude and mean but _always_ truthful and _never_ cruel.” She shakes her head and shrugs and suddenly, she looks so much older than her twenty-one years, “you helped me and…I just…” she falters and Sandor wants to snarl at everyone who can’t take their eyes off of them, “ _thank you_.”

 

And then she walks away from him, out the front door and down the street, until he can’t see her anymore and she’s just another body amongst the masses, struggling to find their way home.

 

_He brings her ice and bandages one night, when the house is dark and silent and he knows she’s still up. She’s in the kitchen (she’s always in the kitchen) staring into nothing, just holding on to her ribs and attempting to hide the pain. He sighs and helps her that night, telling her to keep quiet and sets to work silently, mending his broken little bird. His anger grows when he sees the dark marks and welts on her body and he tries to be as gentle as he can be._

_She grabs one of his hands when he’s done, gripping it in her small ones and she looks up at him, blue eyes filled with unshed tears. “You won’t hurt me.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement._

_“No, little bird,” he says after a moment of silence lapses between them, “I won’t hurt you.”_

 

“Are you done with that?” An irritating voice asks him.

 

He looks up at a barista, hands on her hips and chewing her gum obnoxiously. “No.” He snaps, when she moves to throw out Sansa’s drink.

 

The barista holds her hands up in mock surrender and turns around. “ _Okay_.”

 

Instead, Sandor makes himself stare at the red slushy beverage as condensation leaves a puddle around the bottom rim of the cup and he makes himself stare at the seat she just vacated.

 

He owes no one anything.

 

(But that’s not _entirely_ true, _is it_?)

* * *

“You’re crankier than usual.” Bronn states as he lounges in his chair.

 

“It’s fucking hot out.” Sandor replies, his voice gravelly.

 

Bronn frowns, “it’s _summer_. Of course it’s fucking _hot_.” He shakes his head, “but that’s not it. You’re from here…no, this is more,” he leans forward and a lewd grin crosses his face, “Sandor, are you _sexually frustrated_?”

 

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I _will_ kill you.”

 

“I’ll let him do it too.” Jorah says as he walks in from the heat, a handful of blueprints under his arms.

 

Bronn rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, you always liked him better than me.”

 

“It’s because you’re annoying as shit.” Sandor flatly tells him.

 

“And you’re such a ray of sunshine.” Bronn retorts.

 

“Are you two ladies finished? Because we have work to do.”

 

After their done, they leave pack up the papers, roll up the blueprints and Bronn gives them a slight wave as he leaves. Sandor, is at the door when Jorah calls his name. When he turns around, he finds Jorah staring at him, eyes furrowed, a small crease of worry lining his face.

 

“Everything good?”

 

Sandor nods. “Everything’s good.”

 

Jorah knows it’s a lie but he doesn’t push it and Sandor finds himself grateful.

 

(It’s been exactly a week since he last saw Sansa Stark and he can’t get her tear-filled stricken face out of his mind.)

* * *

“I should have saved her.” Sandor admits to the Elder Brother after fifteen minutes of silence.

 

“Who should you have saved?” The Elder Brother asks, even though Sandor has a feeling he knows the answer.

 

He doesn’t answer him; instead, he leans back against the leather couch and sinks into it, hoping to disappear. “It doesn’t matter. I should have saved her.”

 

“But you didn’t.”

 

“No. I didn’t.”

 

“How do you know that?” The Elder Brother asks him carefully.

 

_“What?”_

 

“I said, how do you know that you didn’t save her? _Whoever_ she is, _whatever_ happened, how do you know that you _didn’t_ save her?”

 

“Because she’s fucking broken.” Sandor snaps. “ _He_ fucking broke her and _I_ watched and didn’t do a damned thing until it was too late.”

 

“Language, Sandor.” The Elder Brother chides. He falls silent and levels him with a stare. “You say that you should have saved her, indicating that you didn’t. You say that she is broken, indicating present tense. You say that you didn’t do anything, whatever it was, until it was too late, indicating that you did, indeed, do something.”

 

“What’s your point?” He sometimes gets so fucking sick of the riddles the Elder Brother likes to spin.

 

“You didn’t save her.” The Elder Brother repeats quietly, “whoever she might be, but you did keep her alive, Sandor and quite possibly, you may be the only thing _keeping_ her alive. Isn’t that more important?”

 

Sandor waits out the rest of his session in silence and the Elder Brother doesn’t make to talk again.

* * *

He should feel surprised when he walks back into the waiting area, where the receptionist perks up at the sound of the door opening, and sees her, legs crossed at the ankles and a long skirt covering her legs, a plain white t-shirt covering her upper body. She doesn’t slouch, doesn’t sink into the chair like he often does and not for the first time, he recognizes her for the woman she’s become and it makes his heart beat faster and it makes him stop in his place.

 

_Do you want to feel vindicated? Or are you pretending to actually give a flying fuck about an old dog like me, just to make yourself seem righteous?_

 

God, he feels ashamed when he thinks back on that day, one week ago. He recognized what she wanted the moment she saw him. Companionship. Maybe a silent shoulder to cry on, or maybe someone to help her remember that she’s still _alive_ and Joffrey _didn’t_ kill her, he came close, but he didn’t. At least not really. (No, instead, Sandor can take that pleasure.)

 

He _knows_ Sansa, he’s watched over her, he’s helped her and he _knows_ her. Probably better than she thinks he does. He never once hurt her (until the day he actually did.)

 

Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s better that this happened and that she realizes, he didn’t push her out the door and back to her own life out of goodness of his heart (because he doesn’t have a heart, it was burned with the flames) but rather because he just… _could_. Because he knew that if someone didn’t, she wouldn’t have saved herself and that Joffrey would have just gone from bad to worse to vicious and where would she be then? Dead, most likely, and instead of mourning a lost little bird stuck in the shadows of who she used to be and grappling with who she should become, he’d be mourning a dead little bird.

 

(He thinks he’s okay if she goes the rest of their lives ignoring him. He deserves it and he’s content with knowing that she’s alive. Broken and empty, but _alive_.)

 

_You didn’t save her. Whoever she might be, but you kept her alive, Sandor and quite possibly, you may be the only thing keeping her alive. Isn’t that more important?_

 

Sandor makes his way to the receptionist, looking at Sansa as he walks by her. Her eyes are open and wide as she’s stares back at him, waiting for him to say something, _anything_ and he feels the words get stuck in his throat. He snaps his mouth shut and clenches his jaw. It’s better off if he says nothing.

 

“Sansa.” The Elder Brother says gently, “You can come in, now.”

 

She scurries away, shooting him one last look as she slinks behind the door and he’s left staring at the wooden door.

 

“You’re a fucking idiot.” The receptionist mutters as she writes down his next appointment and hands him a card.

 

“Did I ask for your fucking opinion?” Sandor snaps.

 

“No.” She shoots back, her eyes blazing, “but I’m going to give it to you anyways. You are a _fucking idiot.”_

 

If he weren’t in the Elder Brother’s building and if he were anything like his brother, she’d be dead right now. And he tells her that. The receptionist laughs at him and it’s a hollow laugh, a bitter laugh, “go ahead, I dare you.”

 

He stomps out of the room, down the hall, down the stairs and out the front door, the sun blazing overhead.

 

He walks by the coffee shop Sansa took him to and he stops, staring at the table where he once sat, spewing hateful things to someone, who didn’t deserve his hatred, his bitterness, his fear and distress.

 

_I never once thought of you that way. As a dog or hound, or anything else they called you. You were crude and mean but always truthful and never cruel. You helped me and…I just…thank you._

 

He shakes his head and whips around, glaring at a woman who bumped into him, talking loudly into her phone. He catches sight of his reflection in the glass, mangled and burnt face staring back at him and he looks away and continues to walk down the sidewalk, hoping to disappear into the crowded street.

 

(He’s always been good at standing out.)

* * *

Bronn is hogging the stand-up fan and Jorah and Sandor exchange exasperated looks. “You hired him.” Sandor mumbles.

 

“It’s because I’m a genius.” Bronn instantly replies.

 

Sandor barks out a laugh. “If you’re a genius, then I’m Steven Hawking.”

 

Bronn turns around in his chair and raises an eyebrow. “Do you even know _who_ Steven Hawking is?”

 

Before Sandor can reply that yes, _I do fucking know who Steven Hawking is, you fucking twat_ , the door to their trailer opens and Daenerys walks in.

 

“Dany.” Jorah says, standing up.

 

Bronn’s eyebrows rise into his hairline as he looks at Sandor and mouths _Dany?_

 

Sandor shrugs. Of course. _Of course_ , Jorah would fall for their fucking boss. Because _that_ won’t end in anything other than a clusterfuck and quite possibly the loss of _both_ their jobs, because Sandor knows that if Jorah goes, so does he. For the main reason that he is _not_ staying alone with Bronn. He’d likely kill the other man than get along with him.

 

“This is a pleasant surprise. You didn’t say you were coming by.”

 

Bronn’s mouth hangs open and Sandor closes his eyes and leans against his chair, letting out a silent groan.

 

“I wanted to see you three personally and let you know about our next project.” She looks around her eyes land on the small window, smiling at the finished building in front of them. “Congratulations on another job well done.”

 

“Thank you.” Jorah replies for the three of them.

 

Sandor grunts and Bronn still doesn’t say anything, instead his eyes continue to flit between Jorah and Daenerys.

 

“Stannis Baratheon asked us to build a number of building complexes in Dragonstone.”

 

Sandor leans forward, his feet planted roughly to the floor, his hands clenching tightly by his sides. He’s breathing heavily through his nose and he finds that he can’t concentrate, the world becoming static around him. He can barely see Jorah throw him a worried glance.

 

“When do we start?” Jorah asks sighing.

 

“Don’t act so excited.” Daenerys teases and then the smile falls off her face as she stares at them. “I know it’s controversial and this will likely not win us any partners but Stannis Baratheon is a good man.” She brushes hair from her face, “we start in two weeks.”

 

_Jesus Christ_. He should have kept walking until this fucking place was long behind him, the night of the fire. But he didn’t, he stayed. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and he looks up, noticing Jorah’s eyes on him.

 

“ _Dany?”_ Bronn erupts when Daenerys leaves. “ _Dany?_ Since when the fuck is she _Dany?”_

 

“I’ve known her for a long time.” Jorah tells him.

 

“Yeah?” A slick grin crosses Bronn’s lips, “how long have you been in _love_ with her?”

 

_“She left me.” Jorah slurred as he opened the door and fell into the hallway._

_“She’s a whore and you’re better off.”_

_“She said she couldn’t be with someone who was in love with someone else.”_

_Sandor stops and looks at him. “Who the fuck are you in love with?”_

_“She has a kind eyes. They’re enchanting.”_

_“Just go to fucking sleep and don’t puke on my couch.”_

 

“Shut-up Bronn.” Sandor hisses, his fist clenching atop his desk.

 

Bronn looks between them and an uneasy look passes over him. “There’s something else going on.” He states. “Don’t particularly give a fuck, but if you two besties decide to let me in, you know where to find me.” He grabs his things and leaves, the trailer door slamming behind him.

 

“You good?” Jorah asks him.

 

Sandor takes a deep breath, anxiety clawing at him. He’s never regretted anything he’s done in his life (except for a few things here and there and half of those things involve Sansa fucking Stark) but the thought of seeing Stannis Baratheon after he lit the switch and set fire to his home while he and his daughter were still in it, makes his skin crawl and dread settles in the pit of his stomach.

 

“That,” Sandor says, “is a very stupid fucking question.”

 

“I know.” Jorah is silent and then he runs a hand through his hair. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll…fuck. I don’t know, but we’ll figure something out.”

 

(He always knew that night was going to come back to haunt him.)

* * *

He doesn’t know why he’s here. He looks out of place amongst the students and they stare at him uncomfortably. A few frat boys attempt to come up to him and Sandor snarls at them until they scurry back, tripping on their feet.

 

It’s late in the afternoon and thankfully the sun has abated to a bearable heat and not for the first time as he waits, Sandor thinks he should leave. He towers over most of the people and he looks around, trying to spot a certain head of fiery red hair. He lets out a puff of air and crosses his arms.

 

He’s lucky campus security hasn’t bounded up to him yet, leaning against his truck, waiting like the creep he is.

 

(Oddly, ever since learning that he would be working for Stannis Baratheon, all he can think about, all that crosses his mind is Sansa.)

 

“ _Sansa, please!”_ He hears a female voice, an irritatingly familiar one and he cranes his head, watching as Sansa hurries down the steps, with Margaery Tyrell trailing after her. God, he hates her and there is a fierce pride when he sees that Sansa doesn’t particularly care for her either anymore.

 

Maybe it’s seeing her in this setting, books clutched tightly to her chest, bag strapped around her shoulder and hair pinned up in a messy bun that snaps him out of his thoughts and he grimaces as he looks down at his worn and faded jeans, work boats and black t-shirt.

 

She’s still prim and proper, even when she’s scurrying away, bouncing on the heels of her feet and for a moment, just a moment, it looks like she’s flying. (Flying high, high, high and then away, away from everyone, away from him.) He feels like an even bigger creep and he’s disgusted with himself, he leans away from his truck, with the intent of going around and getting into the driver’s seat, intent on driving away and never looking back, because it’s better this way, _isn’t it_? Not seeing her. Her not seeing him. They’ll both be able to keep whatever is left of their sanity this way and maybe, just _maybe_ , she’ll stop haunting him (though that’s unlikely to happen.)

 

Except, it’s in that exact moment she lifts her head and spots him, stopping dead in the courtyard, Margaery Tyrell bumping into her back. Sansa cocks her head, eyes widening and a blush spreading across her cheeks. She shrugs off Margaery’s hands and gives her a forced smile and even from this distance he can read her lips as she says to the other girl, “it’s alright. It’s in the past now, isn’t it?” But he can tell that she’s become guarded and hardened by everything that’s happened and he feels a little remorse at her lost wide-eyed belief that there are good people in the world.

 

_That’s life. It’s a cruel bitch, taking everything away from you and then leaving you for dead. You of all people should know that._

 

She makes her way through, bumping and apologizing to people as she walks towards him and she breaks from the crowd, and walks by the group of frat boys who call her name and she ignores them and they fall silent when they see where she’s stopped and who she’s stopped in front of.

 

_He’s gets roaring drunk when he gets home, after he showers and throws away the clothes that smell like fire and as he lies in bed, head spinning, he thinks he could go to her, “I could take you away from here.” He practices to an empty room and empty walls, “no one would hurt or I’d kill them. Everyone is terrified of me anyway. I could keep you safe, little bird.”_

_In his mind and in his drunken state, she says yes, placing her trust and life in his hands and that’s enough to make him bend over to the side of his bed and vomit._

 

“Sandor?” She asks hesitantly, her voice wary but her body inching closer towards him, fingers clenching her books. He ignores the shiver that runs up and down his spine when his name spills from her lips.

 

He runs a hand through his hair, fingertips grazing the mangled side of his face. “Do you want to get coffee?” He blurts out and then clamps his mouth shut and feels like he’s fucking fifteen years old again.

 

“No.” She says. He shouldn’t be surprised, he should have expected it. In fact, he _did_ expect it, but he hoped against all hope that she would- “but I _am_ hungry, so you can buy me dinner.”

 

It takes him a couple seconds for his mind to catch up to what she’s said and he barks out a laugh that resonates across the courtyard and draws curious eyes towards them.

 

She smiles brilliantly and the blush on her cheeks deepens and it makes his stomach flutter. He reaches behind him and opens the passenger door for her, grasping her hand, and putting an arm around her waist, helping her into his truck. She’s soft, tucked against him like this and he’s loathe to let go of her. “Whatever the lady wants.”

 

She bites her lip, looks at him and gives him another smile.

 

(And maybe, just _maybe_ , there’s a little redemption in his life yet.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MASSIVE LOVE AND THANKS TO ALL!  
> Seriously, I've hopefully replied to everyone who has reviewed but HUGE THANKS to those who have kudos'd/bookmarked/followed/favorited/read you make my heart swell! Thank you so so so much! Hope you all enjoyed! Any mistakes are mine and mine alone and I apologize if I offend anyone.   
> MAD LOVE AND RESPECT!  
> BB


	4. Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For bestrafemich21

When she slams the front door after her first appointment with the Elder Brother and her disastrous meeting with Sandor, Sansa feels like the world is crumbling beneath her feet. She struggles with breathing, his words echoing in her ears, until they’re all she can hear.

 

_Do you expect me to bare my soul so that it can make you feel a little better staying with that little shit when you should have been smart and left? Do you want to feel vindicated? Or are you pretending to actually give a flying fuck about an old dog like me, just to make yourself seem righteous?_

 

That’s _not_ what she meant. It’s not how she expected him to take her question or her meaning, or the reason why she invited him to coffee. She just…she lets out a frustrated sigh and runs her hands through her hair, she doesn’t _know_ what she wanted. She doesn’t know what she expected to accomplish.

 

(Except, that’s a lie and she knows it.)

 

She wanted his companionship. She wanted his presence. She always…when Joffrey would beat her, or when Trant and Blount would, she would always anchor herself in his stares and she felt safer because of it. That’s all she wanted. To feel safe again. To…to mean and be something more than a punching bag.

 

“I’ll see!” She hears Bran yell and then hears the wheels of his chair move and Sansa rubs at her eyes, trying to hide their redness, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress, but Bran turns the corner quicker than she expected and he stops, hands on the metal of his wheels and stares at her. He lets out a breath and looks at the stairs, “you should go upstairs. I’ll tell mom that it was just you coming back.” He says quietly.

 

She gives him a wobbly smile, places a kiss on his forehead and then races up the stairs, gently closing the door to her room and locking herself in her bathroom.

 

She splashes cold water on her face and when that doesn’t work, when she still feels like she’s suffocating, she strips off her clothes, the fabric pulling and sticking on her sweat-slicked skin and she gets into the shower, turning on the water until it scalds and burns her.

 

(It’s not fire, but it does burn and hurt and she wonders the magnitude of pain he felt being touched and marked by fire.)

_You’re pathetic. Disgusting and I deserve more than you._

 

Sansa lets out a small whimper and places her head on the tile, letting the water stream down her back, she can still see Joffrey’s face, twisted in rage and glee as he gripped her arm tightly and hissed in her face.

 

_You’re nothing without me. You’ll never amount to anything other being my bitch. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Aren’t you Starks fans of dogs?_

 

_Wolves. We are wolves and we will tear you into pieces_ , she remembers thinking and then she remembers the way his face grew red and the way his eyes bulged and the vein in his forehead pulse rapidly and it’s only then, that she realized she _spoke_ the words and she bit her lip until it bled as he had her beaten.

 

She didn’t cry out, even though she wanted to.

 

_(I am a Stark. We are wolves and we will tear you into pieces.)_

 

When the water turns cold, she jolts from the shock and lets out a small cry as it stings her skin. She turns off the water and stands in the shower, breathing deeply and opens the shower door, wrapping her robe around her body and wiping the condensation from the mirror.

 

Her hair is darker when wet and she sees where the water burnt her skin, but she knows like all the marks she has, they’ll fade away with time.

 

The marks that Joffrey left are gone, only slivers of what they used to be marring her skin, unnoticeable to the eye unless a person knows where to look and Sansa knows _every little scar_ by heart, tracing their patterns with her eyes closed.

 

She leans forward, gripping the edge of the counter and stares at herself in the mirror. She loved him once, thinking about the first few months of bliss, with her own version of prince charming doting on her every word and then her fairytale shattered and the truth became clear. Her prince charming was no prince; instead, he was the monster her old nanny used to tell them about. But by then, it was too late and Sansa neither had the strength or courage to leave, afraid of what his rage would to her family.

 

_I’ll kill them all and make you watch. I’ll kill your noble father and older brother first, chopping their head’s off. I think I’d enjoy hearing your scream. Then I’ll kill your crippled little shit of a brother and the wild one. Your bitch of a sister will be next and I’ll take my time with her. And you’re mother…you look like her. I wonder if she’ll scream like a little bitch when I have Blount beat her to death. And you…you, I’ll save for last._

 

She lets out a small scream and swipes her hand over the sink counter, toiletries scattering and littering the floor in a mass of noise and she stumbles back, hitting the wall and sliding down, head in her hands. She can hear the door to her bedroom slam open and then the bathroom door open, barely missing hitting her and she recognizes Arya’s dirty sneakers and Sansa looks up, eyes red, skin close to blistering underneath her robe and Arya sighs sinking down to the floor across from her.

 

There are hurried footsteps of her mother and Rickon but Arya shakes her head. “I’ll stay. I got this.”

 

Sansa keeps her head buried in her hands and she can feel her mother’s presence and smells her perfume as she lingers in the doorway and then leaves, taking Rickon with her.

 

“Why does Sansa cry all the time?” She hears her brother ask. Her mother’s response is muffled by the closed door.

 

Arya doesn’t say anything, just leans back and eyes Sansa.

 

“You know,” Aray says conversationally, her shoes leaving scuff marks on the floor, “when we were younger, I used to hate you.”

 

Sansa lifts her head, frowning at her. They never did get along when they were younger and even now, there are times when Sansa wants to yell and rage at her younger sister, but she doesn’t, because Arya is wild, she is careless but she is freedom personified. She doesn’t care about anything, she doesn’t care about what people say about her, she just cares about her family and friends and she cares about being true to herself, not to others. She wants to make herself happy and damn the consequences and when she was younger, Sansa found it both appalling and enthralling.

 

“You’re beautiful. You’re fucking smart as hell. Everyone treated you like a princess. You never, _ever_ made a mistake. And maybe… _maybe_ , I envied you for it. For being the perfect little girl, when everyone knows I should have been born a boy.” She lets out a laugh and runs a hand through her short hair. “And then Joffrey happened and you were happy, even though I fucking _told_ you he was nothing but trouble.”

 

“I should have listened to you.”

 

“Then why didn’t you?” Arya asks. It’s the first time any of them ask the question. They always seemed to tiptoe around it but Sansa knew it was always there, lingering on their tongues, just waiting for someone, _anyone_ to ask it. _Why didn’t you leave? Why did you stay? Why didn’t you run? Why didn’t you tell us? Why? Why? Why?_

 

What’s she supposed to tell them? That Joffrey _threatened_ them? That she was so terrified _for_ them, she would have gladly gone through worse to keep his attention away from her family? Sansa _knows_ her family. She knows what they would have done. She knows what they _did_ do.

 

(They like to think that she doesn’t know, but it’s the worst kept secret in the Stark household. Everyone knows that Arya, Robb and Jon have a restraining order on them, to stay further than a hundred feet away from Joffrey Baratheon, after they beat him black and blue, not even a week after she came home, broken, bloodied and bruised. She thinks it’s funny, in an ironic sort of way, that she has a restraining order on Joffrey and Joffrey has a restraining on her family. _We are Starks. We are wolves and we will tear you to pieces,_ she promised him and she wonders if he thought of that when he felt the wrath of her family.)

 

“I was scared.” Sansa admitted.

 

“You don’t have to be scared anymore.” Arya replies quickly. “I may still hate the fact that you’re the girliest girl alive, but you’re my _sister_. You’re my _older sister_. You’re the only one I’ve got and I’ll be damned if anyone else hurts you.”

 

“Arya,” Sansa chokes out, the words getting stuck in her throat and her vision blurs and burns.

 

“I know.” Arya grins, her voice light. “I’m _awesome_.” There is silence between them and Arya clears her throat. “So, are we done with this lovey dovey talk? Because you seriously need to put some panties on. You’re naked and it’s creeping me out. I mean, you’re my sister and I guess I love you, but put your fucking junk away.”

 

Sansa lets out a chuckle that reverberates through her chest and then it turns to blown out laughter as Arya joins in, until they’re both holding their sides, unaware of why they’re really laughing, just that they are.

* * *

_“Sansa, it’s Margaery. Please, just call me back okay?”_

_Message deleted._

_“Hi Sansa…it’s Jeyne. Your mom…she told me that you were staying with Robb and Jon. I tried calling Robb, but he didn’t answer either. I Hope…hope everything is well. Hope you’re all right. We’re…we’re all worried about you. Just…call me back. I miss you.”_

_Message deleted._

_“I’m sorry. Sansa, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…I didn’t know that…I miss you Sansa. I’m worried about you. Call me back. It’s Margaery, by the way.”_

_Message deleted._

_“I think I’m going to change my number.” Sansa tells Robb and Jon one day during dinner. It’s a cloudy day, the sun peaking out in intervals. Robb’s drinking from a bottle of beer, his feet propped on the table and Jon has his books sprawled in front of him, beer within arms reach. He’s chewing at the end of his pen and swiping wayward peanuts that Robb throws at him. Sansa is lounging on the couch, her legs crossed underneath her as she eats from the plate in her hands. “I just…it’s a new start, right? Anyways, just the family will have the number.”_

_Jon looks up and cocks an eyebrow at her, “You’ll have to tell Aunt Cat to not give the number out then.”_

_“Mom wouldn’t do that.” Robb snorts and Jon gives her a disbelieving look. “Okay fine, I’ll make sure to tell mom that no one outside the family will have my new number.”_

_“I think it’s a good idea.” Robb says, cracking his neck from side to side. “Get rid of everyone you don’t want in your life. Cut all the ties with your past. Everyone should do it.”_

_“Really?” Jon replies, “Is that why you dragged my ass north?”_

_“You’re my cousin, practically our brother and you can’t live without me. Two peas in a pod, that’s what mom and dad call us.”_

_“Arya calls you Dumb and Dumber.” Sansa supplies, squealing as she dodges flying peanuts._

_“I could have gone to Harvard.”_

_“I didn’t know you got in.” Sansa says, putting her plate down in front of her, eyes on Jon._

_Jon waves his hand, “Oh, I didn’t. Got rejected. But still. I wanted to leave.”_

_“And you did. North.” Robb says. “Anyways, change of subject, because Jon is going to get moody and philosophical and really, save it for court-”_

_“As opposed to you talking about numbers and equations-”_

_“Accounting is a very respectable job and like hell I was going to end up in politics, why? So I can have my house burned down with me in it by some psycho little shit hell-bent on revenge?”_

_The moment the words come out of Robb’s mouth, his jaw drops and he apologizes quickly, Jon glaring disbelieving at him. Sansa pushes her plate further, her appetite suddenly lost. She gives them a small, strained smile, “it’s fine. You shouldn’t have to tip-toe around me.”_

_“The point being,” Robb says loudly, “it’s a good idea. Changing your number. And while you’re at, I should probably change mine. Somehow, Jeyne got hold of it and now she won’t stop calling. Or texting.”_

_“Arya probably gave it to her.” Jon tells him._

_“Arya wouldn’t do that.” Robb says defensively._

_Sansa and Jon exchange looks and burst out laughing. “Arya wouldn’t do that to me or to Jon.” Sansa explains, “but you? Yeah, Arya would definitely do that to you.”_

 

(A few days later, after she changed her number and sent it to her family members, strictly telling them that no one else, under any circumstances should have it, she finds a message from Arya. _“So, before you get an earful from mom, or the complete and bullshit story that Robb will probably feed you, you should hear it from me. I may, emphasis on the may, have broken Margaery Tyrell’s nose. In my defense, it was a long time coming and she deserved it. I also called her a big-mouthed twat. Be lucky that Gendry was there. He pulled me off her. Or else, I’d likely be calling you from prison. So yeah, don’t say I never did anything for you.”_ There’s a pause and Sansa can almost see her sister run a hand through her hair, “ _I miss you. Bye.”)_

* * *

It’s the weekend, and Sansa is studying, body hunched over her desk, papers and books scattered across it and her laptop glowing, music emitting from her earphones. She looks up when her door opens a sliver and she gives her father a wave, taking out the earphones and leaning back in her chair. “Hi daddy.” She says quietly, aware that it’s late and her brothers and Arya (though the latter, likely not) are sleeping.

 

Her father opens her door wider and comes in, closing it shut behind him. He takes a seat on the corner of her bed, hands on his knees and he stares at her.

 

Ned Stark is a formidable man. A loyal man. A noble man. _Quite possibly, one of the few good men that are left in the world,_ Sansa thinks, but he’s a serious man and Sansa can’t quite fault him. His older brother was murdered, his younger sister disappeared after leaving her son at their doorstep (and then later died in a car accident somewhere in Europe), his younger brother is in the Navy and rarely visits, his best friend was murdered, his younger son was involved in a car accident, leaving him physically disabled, his younger daughter and youngest son are, for all intents and purposes, wild and untamable and now her, his eldest daughter, intent on becoming a pediatrician and still reeling from an abusive relationship to a sadistic monster, who may or may not be the product of incest from his dead best friend’s widowed wife and her brother.  

 

Her father hasn’t had it easy, his life rife with death and destruction and grief (and she can’t help but liken him to another man she knows, another man who uses cruel words belies his gentle hands, but who’s life has equally seen death and destruction and grief.)

 

“Is everything okay?” Sansa asks him.

 

“I need to tell you something.” He says, flexing his hands, his fingers cracking. “You know…you know I supported Robert in everything he did, right or wrong.”

 

Sansa nods, dread pooling in the pit of her stomach.

 

“I’ve been talking to Stannis and I’ve decided to support him. He’s building a number of building complexes in Dragonstone and I’m throwing my weight, so to speak, behind him. He’s…he’s a good man. He’s a just man.”

 

Sansa _knows_ this. She _knows_ it, because this, _everything_ , started because she supports Stannis. She supports his ideals and policies, but she’s also the catalyst for his house burning down. She’s the catalyst for his and Shireen’s almost deaths and she doesn’t know how she can look him in the face. She doesn’t know how she can stare at them and not feel guilty.

 

_You’re pathetic. You’re weak and you’ll never amount to anything. You’re nothing but a little bitch._

 

“Daddy,” she says hoarsely, her doubts and fears and guilt bubbling up inside of her until she feels like she’s going to explode, until it becomes harder for her breathe.

 

He sees her struggle and he grabs her hand, pulling her out her chair and into his arms and she breathes in deeply, recognizing the familiar smell of her father. “He knows what Joffrey is like. He knows and he doesn’t…Sansa, he doesn’t blame you. You saved him and Shireen that night. You _saved_ them. You’re so strong Sansa. My little girl, you’re so strong.”

 

(She falls asleep to her dad rocking her back and forth and the familiar scent of her father invading her senses.)

* * *

She feels like she can breathe again when she shuts the door to the Elder Brother’s office, the burnt side of Sandor’s face the last thing she sees. She shakes, her body trembling as she sinks into the leather couch, taking a small amount of comfort at the warmth it leaves her with and when she sniffs and breathes in deeply, she can smell him and it makes her tremble all over again.

 

The Elder Brother is staring at her, his face calm and understanding.

 

“My dad is supporting Stannis in his campaign.” Sansa blurts out.

 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” The Elder Brother asks. “You said yourself that you like what he stands for.”

 

“I do.” Sansa says, “I do. I just…”

 

“You feel guilty.”

 

“I feel _responsible.”_

 

“You didn’t start the fire, Sansa. You were nowhere near it.”

 

“I got Joffrey so angry that he wanted to kill his own uncle and cousin.”

 

_Their deaths…it’s all going to be on you. You’re their judge, jury and executioner. I almost want you to watch them burn. Will you cry for them? I won’t give a fuck either way._

 

“Joffrey is…”

 

_Psychotic? Sadistic? A monster?_

 

“…Disturbed.” There is silence and the Elder Brother gives her a warm look.

 

Sansa bites her lip and wrings her hands, until they’re sore and she sighs, looking at the older man in front of her. “What…” she doesn’t know to approach the subject. It doesn’t feel quite right, talking about him without his knowledge or consent, but she reasons, this is _her_ session, this is _her_ time and whether he likes it or not, he’s part of _who she is_. “I don’t…” she lets out a frustrated sigh and closes her eyes, memories of his gentle hands wiping blood away from her lip, handing her a frozen pack of peas, his eyes, full of rage and fury, looking at her but never directed at her…and then she remembers his cruel words. “There’s this man.” She finally states. “He was…he was there. With Joffrey, I mean.”

 

“Was he one of the men who hurt you?”

 

Sansa shakes her head vigorously. “No. He would never, despite his size and demeanor and past, he would never…” she trails off and turns her head away from the Elder Brother’s knowing looks. “I see him, time to time.”

 

“I think I might scare him and I can’t…I don’t want to be part of his nightmares. I don’t…want to be…one of his regrets.”

 

“My dear,” the Elder Brother says, his voice void of any judgment, “I don’t think you could ever be one of his regrets. Whoever he may be.” There is a twinkle in his eyes and Sansa knows he knows who she’s talking about.

 

She sinks back into the couch, his fading scent still lingering as she takes deep breath after deep breath.

* * *

“I told him he was an idiot.” The receptionist tells her as she hands Sansa a card with her appointment reminder on it. “Well, actually, I called him more than that, but still.”

 

Sansa jolts and looks at the receptionist surprised. She’s never truly looked at her but now that she is, she realizes that she’s not that much older than she is. Her hair is dark, her eyes even darker and she wears a sly grin, looking pleased with herself.

 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Sansa says softly.

 

The receptionist scoffs. “He was being a fucking idiot.”

 

Sansa lets out a laugh at how much the woman before her reminds her of Arya. “He’s not that bad. He’s just…” she trails off and shakes her head. “Thank you…?”

 

“Myranda Royce.” The receptionist supplies, giving Sansa a small wave.

 

Sansa waves back and heads out the door, down the hall, down the stairs and out of the building, disappearing into the mass of people.

* * *

She’s surprised that he remembers her love of pizza, as he leads her to a booth in the back, away from prying eyes. He nods at the staff he obviously recognizes and waits until she slides in, before he slides in across from her.

 

(It’s been a long time since a man acted like a gentleman with her and she feels her heart hammering in her chest.)

 

“Do you come here often?” Sansa asks him, playing with the napkin on her lap.

 

He looks at her, body leaning comfortably in the booth and shrugs, “I did the owner a few favors.”

 

She doesn’t ask what those favors were.

 

They fall into silence and she bites her lip, mind racing. It’s awkward and she doesn’t know what to do with her hands, or what to say without sounding stupid.

 

“Why did you bring me here?”

 

“Why are you ignoring Margaery Tyrell?”

 

They both speak at the same time and Sansa stares at him in shock, processing his question and then she laughs. She can see the corners of his lips twitch and she places her elbows on the table, forgetting everything her mother ever taught her about table manners.

 

“I’ll give you my answer first.” Sansa ventures first, “I’ve been ignoring her since…since that night. It’s not that…I don’t think she meant it maliciously…just, every time I see her, I see _him_ and she’s _dating_ him, which, I don’t know _how_ she can when she _knows_ what he’s like but she’s…she’s stronger than I am, her family more prominent and I don’t…I don’t want to be around her. Or anything that’s related to him.” She can feel herself flush under his gaze.

 

“Yet you’re here with me.” He says, his voice barely hiding his anger.

 

“You’re different.” Sansa says automatically. “You’re… _different_.” She takes a breath and steadies him with a look, “why did you bring me here?”

 

“You still like pizza?” He asks after a moment of silence.

 

Sansa nods, smiling. “I love it.”

 

“That’s why.”

 

Sansa can tell there’s more but she doesn’t push, finding that she doesn’t have the heart to push him.

 

They’re interrupted by the waiter bringing them water and taking their orders and then they’re left alone and Sansa can feel the tension between them.

 

“My father is supporting Stannis’ campaign.” Sansa tells him quietly, fingers strumming along the edge of the table.

 

She can see his body tense and she sees his hands freeze in their place. Then he sighs and Sansa can feel the warm air flow between them and she can feel her hair flutter around her ear. “My work is building his apartment complexes.”

 

Sansa can’t help it, but she lets out a bark of laughter and it’s still bitter and humorless, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass of water. He frowns at the sound that comes out of her mouth and she can’t help but think that this would all be so poetic if it didn’t have the markings of sending them spiraling out of what little reality they’re obviously struggling to hold on to.

 

They don’t say anything until the pizza comes and Sansa thanks the waiter, her smile warm and the waiter blushes and stammers and turns away when Sandor glares hard at him.

 

She looks around and grabs her fork and knife and stops when she hears deep rumbling laughter. She looks up and Sandor is staring at her, amusement in his grey eyes. “You are _not_ eating pizza with a fork and knife.” He says.

 

Sansa lets out a breathy giggle, silently thanking whatever God is listening that he doesn’t care about manners or propriety, picking up the pizza, relishing in the feel of grease on her fingers and moaning as she bites into the pizza.

 

They eat in silence, she looking up and finding him staring at her, mouth falling open and shut, as if wanting to say something and unaware how.

 

She wipes her fingers and mouth on the napkin and sighs, taking a sip of water.

 

“I’m seeing the Elder Brother because Joffrey still haunts me. The things he said and did I’m not…over it. I went to him once before and thought I was ready, so I stopped and when I went north it was fine, _I_ was fine but coming back here…it all just came back.”

 

He’s silent, staring at her and fists clenching and unclenching. She wonders what he’s thinking about. What goes on in his mind and she wonders if he’s as tormented as she is.

 

“I dream of fire and my regrets. The Elder Brother, he’s known me for a long time.” Sandor confides.

 

Sansa nods and she feels her breath catch. “I’m sorry.” Sansa says, fingers tracing the tablecloth. “For…I mean…if I…I’m sorry.”

 

“Not your fault, little bird.”

 

There’s more to that statement, but Sansa doesn’t push, finding that she doesn’t have the heart to push him.

 

_(I don’t think you could ever be one of his regrets.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed/kudos’d/bookmarked/followed/favorited! SERIOUSLY. THANK YOU ALL SO SO SO MUCH. It means so much to me. Words cannot even...you guys are amazing! I hopefully responded to each of you but if I didn't, please please let me know! Thank you all so so much!


	5. Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For bestrafemich21

When they’re back in his truck, he looks at the textbooks that she has neatly stacked on the passenger seat. He sees titles like _Biochemistry, Psychology_ , something about _Statistics_ and he remembers her say saying one day during dinner with the Baratheon’s that she wants to be a pediatrician.

 

_Cersei, laughs delicately and dabs at the corner of her lips with a napkin and tells her, eyes appearing gentle but full of barely restrained disdain, “it’s a noble profession, but little dove, you will do what Joffrey wants you to do.”_

_Sansa frowns, her eyes drifting between Joffrey and Cersei and Sandor thinks that this is her first big hint that the Baratheon family is all kinds of fucked up._

 

“Still studying to be a pediatrician?” He asks as he turns on the car, the truck revving.

 

She turns her head and gives him a surprised look. “Yeah. I…I graduate soon. Then I’ll try to get into med school.”

 

He thinks it’s cute. The little bird trying to save and help other little birds. He can see it. Sansa in a white coat, giving her smiles freely to the kids that come in and out of her life and he can see the way they would be entranced by her and the way her eyes shine so fucking brilliantly blue.

 

“And you?” She asks, “you said your work was building complexes for Stannis…”

 

“I work at a construction company,” he tells her, “I’m a foreman along with two other guys.”

 

She leans her head against the window, head facing him and she gnaws at her bottom lip, pulling it between her teeth. “And they’re good guys? Are you…are you happy?”

 

He shrugs, “it’s a job. I’m living. I’m not killing anyone.” He gives her a feral grin, “I’d say it’s a good start at least.”

 

They lapse into a silence and it’s a comfortable one. He glances over at her every now and then and sees a soft smile flit across her lips and he grips the steering wheel tighter. He’s not a talkative person, he never has been, but there is something about Sansa Stark that makes him want to talk. There’s something about her that makes him want to keep her talking.

 

“North, it did you good then?” He asks.

 

She looks startled at the question and sinks down further into the seat, trying to get into a comfortable position. She nods, hands clutching her knees. “Yeah. It was…it was nice. Good to be back home. It was…it was a while I’d been back. I…should have gone sooner. I stayed with my brother and cousin and it was…it was nice.”

 

“Why’d you come back? Why not stay there? Or get out of King’s Landing?”

 

She shrugs, “maybe someday, but I still have to finish school and my family is here and I didn’t…want to keep on running. I thought coming back here would be easier. It’s been a year but it hasn’t gotten any easier and if I leave, I want to leave with no regrets, without looking over my shoulder, without being afraid of my own shadow or the voices in my head.” She sighs and when she looks at him, her eyes are shining, glossy with unshed tears and it makes his body lurch with how vulnerable she is. With how vulnerable she is letting herself be, in front of him. “I want my life back.”

 

He can understand that. It gets tiring to work through the fear and demons lingering in every corner. He can understand the spiraling feeling of not having any control of your life and the way it almost feels like drowning. He gets it and he respects her more for trying to get her life on track instead of running from it, when he knows that she wants nothing more than to disappear and never have to deal with anything or anyone again.

 

He’s been there. Hell, he’s _still_ there, stuck in a twisted purgatory of rage and fury.

 

He turns on his blinker, makes a right hand turn, his memory from driving Joffrey to her house numerous times, coming back to him instinctively.

 

“Why didn’t you leave?”

 

_Because I couldn’t take you with me,_ is on the tip of his tongue and he remembers the night he got roaring drunk when he gets home, after he showers and throws away the clothes that smell like fire and as he lies in bed, head spinning, he thinks he could go to her, _I could take you away from here_ , he practices to an empty room and empty walls, _no one would hurt or I’d kill them. Everyone is terrified of me anyway. I could keep you safe, little bird._

 

He shrugs again, “it never occurred to me to leave.” It’s a lie and there is a sick twisted feeling in the pit of his stomach at lying to her.

 

_A hound will die for you, but never lie to you,_ his father’s words echo back to him and he grips his steering wheel until his knuckles are white.

 

“I’m this house, just over here.” Sansa tells him, as if he doesn’t know.

 

He parks in front of her driveway and she slowly collects her books and bag, slinging it around her shoulder, her elbow almost catching him in the face. She gasps and apologizes, a blush looming over her cheeks and she opens the door and steps out, “thank you, for dinner and for…well…for everything.”

 

He nods, a knot in his chest at saying goodbye to her.

 

She moves back and forth on the balls of her feet, hand grasping the door and she opens and closes her mouth, as if wanting to say something but unable to muster out the words. He gives her a wan smile, his face twisting in an unattractive grin. “You should go back to your nest, little bird.”

 

Her face falls, disappointment lingering in her eyes, but she nods and closes the passenger door gently. He watches her walk up the driveway and waits until she’s safely inside her house. When the front door closes behind her (without a backwards glance to him) he lets out a deep breath and leans forward. He puts the truck in drive and pulls away from the curb, refusing to look in the rearview window.

 

(If he did, he would have seen a silhouette of a young woman with fire for hair and blue eyes staring at him through the window.)

* * *

“I hate this damn city.” Sandor confesses, shifting on the leather couch.

 

“Why?”

 

“The heat.” He answers, “It’s oppressive. It feels like I’m always fucking burning.”

 

“Why didn’t you leave?” The Elder Brother leans forward, elbows on his knees, “why haven’t you left, if this city embodies everything you hate?”

 

He thinks about Sansa Stark then and he finds that his mind is _always_ going to Sansa Stark at the most inopportune fucking moments and it makes his skin itch and crawl. But he does anyways, think about her that is. He thinks about her hair that is as red as fire and thinks that maybe, just _maybe_ , not all fire is bad. That maybe, just _maybe_ , he wouldn’t mind feeling her strands of hair on his body, trailing down and leaving fiery paths in their wake. He wouldn’t mind being burned by her.

_“Why didn’t you leave?”_

_“It never occurred to me to leave.”_

 

What he didn’t tell her, what he doesn’t think he will _ever_ tell her is that he was waiting for her to come back. For him to see with his two eyes that she’s _okay_ , that she’s _fine_ and _alive_ and not bruised or broken or bloodied. He thought that maybe, seeing her again, would be his freedom, his one good deed in a life so entrenched in rage and fury and blood. And then she did come back. He heard rumors and whispers of her name and gossip about what supposedly happened to her, none of it true, none it remotely close to the truth that only the two of them know. He never did have the courage to see her and he thinks that it’s because of what happened that night and how she reminds him of fire, engulfing him in flames, but most of all, he just didn’t want to find her pretending to live.

 

(Instead, he finds her lost and confused, a hollow shell of who she used to be and Sandor thinks that’s even worse.)

 

“Sandor?” The Elder Brother asks again, “why didn’t you leave?”

 

Sandor doesn’t like lying. He thinks it’s pointless, albeit sometimes needed in certain situations, but overall, he tries to avoid lying and because it’s the Elder Brother and the Elder Brother is one of the few people who know him, he tells him the truth. “Because I couldn’t. Not without her.”

* * *

She’s usually there when he leaves his session with the Elder Brother but today, he’s met with an empty waiting area, the receptionist typing away on her keyboard.

 

(There is something hollow about not seeing her there, hands wringing in her lap, teeth gnawing at her lower lip and legs crossed at the ankles.)

 

“What did you do?” The receptionist asks, ceasing her typing and lifting her head to look him in the eyes without flinching.

 

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

 

“Sansa Stark. What did you do to her? She called, sounded distressed and canceled.”

 

He feels something in the pit of his stomach churn and he feels as if his heart has stopped beating.

 

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” His body goes rigid and the thought of Joffrey being so fucking stupid as to contact her crosses his mind, because it _is_ something that little sadistic shit would do. He doesn’t think even God could stop him from ripping him apart limb for limb this time around.

 

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “ _Oh my God_. I have no idea what the fuck she sees in you. _Go. Find. Out_.” She pauses and scrunches up her nose. “But don’t tell her I told you. I could get fired.” She slides a piece of paper towards him with his next appointment.

 

He grabs the slip of paper and is out the door before he can even think straight.

 

(He can never think straight. Not when it’s about Sansa Stark.)

* * *

When he gets to her house, he sees her car sitting in the driveway on its own. He parks and makes his way up to the front porch, heart thundering and blood pulsing through his body. He knocks on the door and tries his best to not beat it down with his fists.

 

It doesn’t take long (it feels like forever) but the door opens and she’s looking back at him in, quite possibly, the most disheveled state he’s seen her in. She’s wearing an oversized white shirt and a pair of tight shorts that should be illegal, her hair in a messy bun. She doesn’t look hurt and while her eyes are red, it doesn’t look like she’s been crying. Just tired.

 

“Sandor?” She chirps at him, her voice welcoming, if not a bit confused.

 

“You weren’t at the Elder Brother’s.” He says, _and that fucking receptionist nearly sent me into an early grave_ , he wants to add but he restrains and he thinks that _fucking receptionist_ owes him _big_.

 

She stares at him a bit longer and then she laughs and opens the door wider, welcoming him in. “I’m swamped with papers and midterms.” She explains, as she shuts the door behind him.

 

He turns around, hand on the doorknob, ready to leave her to her homework ( _homework, fucking homework_ and he cringes, remembering how much older he is and doing the math on the last time he ever had to do homework and _I need to get the fuck out here, quickly_ ), “I’ll just go.”

 

“No.” She says quickly, her hand resting on his bicep. “Stay. Just for a little while. I…I need a break anyways.”

 

His hand lets go of the doorknob and he follows her deeper into her house.

 

(If she led him to the deepest pit of hell, he thinks he would follow her.)

* * *

His back is leaning against the couch, his legs outstretched in front of him, a bottle of water beside of him.

 

“ _I have juice, soda, water…there’s beer too, if you want beer.”_

_“Water is fine.” He says quickly._

 

It’s been an hour that he’s been in her living room and they’ve fallen into their routine of conversation and then comfortable silence.

 

“I do think about it.” He tells her, seemingly out of the blue. Except, it’s not. Not really, because she’s talking about her time with her brother and cousin up north and he can’t get the Elder Brother’s question out his mind ( _why didn’t you leave? Why haven’t you left?)_ “leaving.” He clarifies when he sees her confused expression. “I do think about it.”

 

She’s silent and then she shifts closer until he can feel the white cotton fabric of her t-shirt graze his arm. She tilts her head and his eyes fall downward to the pulse point on her neck. She puts her hand on his bicep again and she curls it into his arm, until he can feel her fingernails lightly dig into his skin (it burns him through and through, leaving an imprint on his skin, on his soul), “if you do leave,” she says slowly, “take me with you.”

 

(His traitorous mind brings him back to that night, when he got roaring drunk when he gets home, after he showers and throws away the clothes that smell like fire and as he lies in bed, head spinning, he thinks he could go to her, _I could take you away from here_. He practices to an empty room and empty walls, _no one would hurt or I’d kill them. Everyone is terrified of me anyway. I could keep you safe, little bird.)_

 

He thinks he could kiss her then, she’s there, her head tilted, her body pressed close to his and he can feel the blood boil in his veins and he can feel the pressure build and all he has to do is lean down and capture her lips with his. He wonders what she’ll taste like, lemons and strawberries maybe. Maybe she’ll taste like vanilla, or coconut or whatever the fuck enticing smell she has on her body. Or maybe, just _maybe_ , she’ll taste like nothing he’s ever tasted before and he’ll become addicted to her.

 

His body pushes him forward, head leaning down, lips hovering above hers, so close he can almost, _almost_ , taste her and his eyes never leave her face, not when she closes her eyes, not when her lips part, pink tongue darting out to wet them, not when she lets out a deep breath and he’s close, he’s _so_ fucking close, he’s sure she can hear his heart beat in his chest, and then the front door slams open and shut and he pulls away from him, creating an even bigger distance and slowly clambering to his feet.

 

He sees a petite shadow and a yell, “Sansa! I’m bored, we should- _what the fuck are you doing here_?” Her sister is small but she’s fierce and she’s looking at him like she wants to kill him and he’s torn between amusement and irritation at her.

 

“Arya!” Sansa says loudly and a little forcefully. “This is Sandor and-”

 

Her sister takes a step towards them, her small hands balling into fists. “I _know_ who the fuck he is. What I want to know is _what the fuck he’s doing here_? Shouldn’t you be off burning down more houses?”

 

“Arya!” Sansa shrieks.

 

Sandor tenses and he feels his blood freeze as the little she-bitch smirks at him. He clenches his own fists and her gaze follows his gesture.

 

“Are you going to hit me?” She taunts.

 

“Arya, stop it.” Sansa warns.

 

“Why?” Her sister shoots back. “It’s what he does. It’s what they _all_ do, isn’t it? Hit innocent girls and then burn down houses. Is that how you get off?”

 

“Arya,” He can hear Sansa plead, “that’s enough. You don’t…you don’t understand.”

 

“He’s a _monster_.” She hisses back at her older sister. “That’s all I need to understand.”

 

_He’s a monster. He’s a monster. He’samonster._

 

No. _No_.

 

The real monsters are Gregor and Joffrey. He’s nothing but a dog.

 

He slips past the arguing sisters, unwilling to say anything else, because he knows if he does, he’s going to explode and then he’ll prove the little she-bitch right, that maybe, just _maybe_ , the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

 

He gets to his truck, when he hears someone call his name and he looks to see Sansa hurrying towards him. “Sandor, _please_ , just…just _wait.”_

 

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He’s getting too old for this shit. He’s too old, too broken, too scarred for her. “Go back inside, little bird.”

 

“No.” She says resolutely, her voice taking on a hint of desperation. “I didn’t…I didn’t say that you…that you…hurt me.”

 

“But you told her I burn down houses?”

_Shouldn’t you be off burning down more houses?_

 

“ _No_.” She shakes her head, “yes. Maybe. I was inconsolable that night and she asked what happened and I told her everything but I told her that you never touched me.”

 

_But I thought of it, Gods, the things I thought about,_ he thinks, _the things I still think about._

 

“Go inside, little bird.”

 

“No.”

 

“You shouldn’t be hanging around monsters anyways.”

 

She lets out a huff and he can see tears of frustration leak from her eyes. “You’re _not_ a monster. I’ve never said that! Sandor… _please_.”

 

He almost gives in, _almost,_ but instead, he gets into the drivers seat and turns on his truck, peeling away from the Stark household.

 

He tells himself not to look in the rearview mirror, but he does and he sees her standing there, a light wind picking up and twirling strands of loose fire red hair around her face and in that instant, she reminds him of fire personified.

 

_(I do think about it. Leaving._

_If you do leave…take me with you.)_

* * *

When he gets home that night, he gets so drunk he imagines her with him, soft hands on his face.

 

_(I do think about it. Leaving._

_If you do leave, take me with you.)_

* * *

“You look like shit.” Bronn tells him as he stumbles into the meeting room.

 

Jorah looks up from his seat and narrows his eyes.

 

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

 

“Yeah.” Bronn retorts, spinning in his chair, “looking like shit.”

 

When his alarm blared incessantly that morning, he frowned at it, wondering why he had it set on a Saturday morning and then he remembers the meeting with Daenerys at the office and he’s out of his bed and into the shower, cold water freezing his skin and numbing the pain in his head. He’s hung over but at least he looks presentable. Kind of.

 

“Bronn’s right. You do look like shit. Rough night?” Jorah asks conversationally.

 

“You fucking ladies want a heart-to-heart?”

 

“Gentlemen,” Daenerys says in a clear voice, walking in with Barristan Selmy and Daario Naharis on her trails.

 

Selmy, Sandor likes. He’s a smart man and a realistic one. The younger one, not so much and he knows Jorah and Bronn feel the same way.

 

“Thank you for coming in so early on a Saturday. Our client wanted to meet and talk about the future plans about his development. He should be here with his own support team as well. I trust you will all make him feel welcome.”

 

Jorah shoots him a sideways glance and Sandor takes in a deep breath. _Great, just fucking great, because this day can’t get any worse._

 

“Dany.” He hears Stannis say as he walks into the room.

 

Stannis is taller than he remembers, thinner, face more gaunt than he recalls. It could be from politics, it could be from his bat-shit crazy family, immediate and extended, or it could be because the man who almost managed to burn him and his daughter alive is sitting not even three chairs away from him.

 

He recognizes Davos Seaworth but doesn’t recognize the woman with red hair wearing a red dress, who Sandor immediately doesn’t like because when she looks at him, it’s like she’s trying to read his soul. (He wants to laugh in her face, _I don’t have a soul,_ he wants to tell her, a little voice in the back of his mind taunts him, _but that’s not entirely true, is it?)_ , and then looking behind Seaworth and the unnamed woman, Sandor lets out a breath, mind racing, heart thundering in his chest.

_My dad is supporting Stannis’ campaign,_ the little bird told him.

 

He’d recognize Ned Stark anywhere and apparently, Ned Stark recognizes him too.

* * *

The meeting is tense, if not forcibly pleasant and Sandor almost feels bad for Jorah, having to play referee and make sure that no one makes any sudden movements and starts an all out fucking war in the middle of the meeting room.

 

When it’s done and everyone is exchanging pleasantries, Sandor escapes from the room, down the hall into the men’s bathroom. He takes a deep breath, hands clenching the edge of the counter, head bowed.

 

_It could have gone worse,_ he concludes, then again, _it could have gone better._

 

The door to the bathroom opens and Sandor’s eyes cut to it and he groans inwardly when he sees the familiar figure of Stannis.

 

He doesn’t nod, doesn’t smile or even acknowledge him, as he walks by him and goes to the sink next to him and Sandor is grateful for the silent treatment. He makes to move, to leave because he can’t do this. _Fuck being grown men, I can’t do this._ He feels like he’s suffocating looking at Stannis.

 

“I know who you are.” Stannis says, his voice is hard and cold.

 

“Yeah?” Sandor says coolly, “A lot of people know who I am.”

 

Stannis pumps soap into his hands and runs his hands underneath the water from the tap, his movements calculated and even.

 

“I’ll give you that.” Stannis replies, “but I know _who_ you are.” He closes the tap with his elbow and shakes off excess water, reaching over to grab paper towel and wipes his hands dry with them. “Sandor Clegane. Youngest son to Frederick and Maureen Clegane, both dead in a freak car accident. Older brother to Kathleen Clegane, she was murdered, wasn’t she? _Tragic_. Your older brother is Gregor. I hear he’s making fast friends in prison.”

 

“If anyone knows what’s good for them, they’ll shank his fucking ass.” Sandor growls.

 

Stannis gestures to Sandor’s face. “That’s right, brotherly love is lost amongst the two of you.” He throws the paper towels in the wastebasket and stands straight, “you hate fire, yet you burned my house down. With me and my daughter in it.”

 

Sandor closes his eyes and opens them again.

 

“I get it.” Stannis says, “loyalty even if you don’t care for your charge. I may not have agreed with all, if anything, my brothers do or have done, and I may not have liked Robert, but I did _love_ him. So, really, I understand loyalty.” He steps closer to him, “isn’t it funny, how the world works? You leave one Baratheon, only to work for another.”

 

“I work for Daenerys.” Sandor says evenly, his voice not betraying the storm waging in him.

 

“And now, she works for me.” His expressions drops and his eyes cloud over. “I wanted you off the team. I wanted you out of the fucking company. I wanted to destroy your life the way you almost destroyed mine.” He steps forward again, until his shoulder is pressed against him. “But I didn’t because she told me that you were a kind man, a misunderstood man but above all, a good man. I don’t know what you’ve done to gain her trust, but she does seem to trust you a lot and well…I suppose, I owe her a lot.”

 

“Daenerys is a kind person.” He says through gritted teeth, as Stannis walks away from him, his hand on the doorknob.

 

He sees Stannis turn halfway, a wry smile on his face. “I’m not talking about Daenerys. You get _one_ chance, Clegane. You fuck up and I’ll send you to prison for a long overdue brotherly reunion.” And then he leaves the bathroom, leaving Sandor fuming in his own rage.

 

He lashes out, fist slamming into the mirror, pain exploding in his hand as he examines the shards of glass around the counter and piercing his skin.

 

The bathroom door bursts open and Bronn and Jorah come skidding to a halt.

 

“Jesus fuck.” Jorah murmurs.

 

The door shuts behind them and Bronn leans against it. “Okay, you two.” He says, pointing to Jorah and Sandor, “start fucking talking. _Now_.”

* * *

He manages to avoid talking to Ned Stark, using his bloodied fist as an excuse to leave early. Jorah drives him to emergency, even though he protests. It takes the better part of five hours, but by the end, they give him painkillers that he’s not going to take and they wrap his hand, sending him on his way.

 

Jorah drives him home. “You going to be okay?”

 

“Fine.” Sandor says.

 

Jorah nods and doesn’t push the subject and Sandor gets out of the too small car and makes his way to his apartment, unlocking the door and kicking it shut with his foot, locking it again.

 

_(“I set Stannis Baratheon’s house on fire.” Sandor tells Bronn in a monotone voice._

_Bronn frowns, “is that it? I knew that. Jesus, and here I’m thinking it’s going to be something juicy. Something interesting. No offence Sandor, but that’s old news.”_

_“Go fuck yourself, Bronn.”)_

 

He struggles taking off his shirt, with his wounded hand, but manages and he throws the bottle of painkillers off to the side, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer.

 

He’s only just opened it and has taken a couple sips when a knock resounds at the door. He growls, not bothering to put on his shirt and storms towards the door, unlocking it and opening it roughly, not bothering to look in the peephole. “What the fuck do you…” he trails off when his eyes land on her.

 

Her thumbs are hooked in the pocket of her shorts, pulling them down just an inch and showing a sliver of skin underneath the tank top she’s wearing. She bites her lip when she looks at him; blush spreading across her cheeks and neck. “Hi.” She says softly. “Can…can I come in?”

 

He shouldn’t let her in. God only knows he shouldn’t let her in, but he finds himself opening the door wider, gesturing for her to come in. She gives him a smile and slinks into his apartment as he shuts the door and locks it behind them.

 

_(Why didn’t you leave? Why haven’t you left?_

_Because I couldn’t. Not without her.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE HUGE THANK YOU TO EVERYONE! Seriously, massive thank you! You're kind words mean the world to me.


	6. Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For bestrafemich21

She can feel Arya’s anger the moment she steps back into the house, the door slamming shut behind her with restrained anger. Tears prick her eyes as she moves into the living room, where Arya is still standing, her hands clenched into tight fists.

 

“Are you fucking _stupid_?” Arya hisses at her, her brown eyes blazing. “Or have you forgotten everything he’s done to you?”

 

“He hasn’t _done_ anything to me!” Sansa talks loudly over her sister. She rarely, if ever, raises her voice at anyone in her family. “He _saved_ me.”

 

Arya looks at her, eyes wide with disbelief and there is a hint of cruelty that Sansa has always known to exist in her sister but was rarely directed at Sansa. They got into fights and arguments, of course they did, but never, _ever,_ has Arya looked at her with such…contempt as she’s looking at her now. “Are you even _listening_ to yourself? Do you even fucking _understand_ what you’re saying? That man is a _monster._ He is a _murderer_. He’s an _arsonist_.”

 

Sansa wants to lash out at her, wants to tell her that _no, he’s not_. He’s not a monster, because if he were a monster, he wouldn’t have wiped blood from her split lip. He’s not a murderer, he may have been before, in his past, but that’s not who he is. It’s not what defines him. She wants to tell her sister that he isn’t an arsonist and that his nightmares are made of flames.

 

But she doesn’t. Instead, she bites her lip and looks away from her sister’s accusing gaze. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

Arya barks out a laugh, it’s bitter and harsh and Sansa cringes from the sound of it. “Because you won’t tell me, tell _us_ , anything. How are we supposed to help you, if you don’t say a fucking thing? You wanted to leave? _Fine._ You fucking left north and Robb and Jon welcomed you with open arms. _Great._ You’re seeing the Elder Brother again, _fine_. At least he has you talking. But what about _us_? What about _me_? I’m your fucking _sister_ and you don’t say anything and none of us have a fucking clue as to what goes in your empty little head.”

 

There are times when _all_ Sansa has wanted to do is tell her sister what happened. What Joffrey put her through. What she went through, physically, mentally and emotionally and every time she’s goes to open her mouth and confess her darkest thoughts and memories, a blinding fear washes over her and all she can hear, all that invades his mind are his promises, his threats: _I’ll kill them all and make you watch. I’ll kill your noble father and older brother first, chopping their head’s off. I think I’d enjoy hearing your scream. Then I’ll kill your crippled little shit of a brother and the wild one. Your bitch of a sister will be next and I’ll take my time with her. And you’re mother…you look like her. I wonder if she’ll scream like a little bitch when I have Blount beat her to death. And you…you, I’ll save for last._

 

And that… _that_ is enough for her to snap her mouth shut and not say a thing, just stare at her bedroom ceiling, hand reaching out to grasp her sister’s, holding it tightly in the space between them.

 

“You wouldn’t understand.” Sansa says quietly, head bowed and toes tracing the hardwood floor beneath her feet. And she wouldn’t. Not Arya. Arya is strong, much stronger than Sansa is. She would never have let this happen to her. Arya would have fought back, but Sansa isn’t Arya. She’s not strong; she’s just…she’s just _Sansa_.

 

“You really are stupid. Jesus Christ, are you really that fucking _pathetic_ that you run to the fucking _Hound_? Your _tormentor_?”

 

Her head snaps up and she gazes at her sister, eyes wide with hurt.

_You’re pathetic. You’re worth nothing. You’re nothing but a little bitch._

 

Arya’s eyes widen and she steps forward, only to stop in her place when Sansa takes a step back, tears pooling in her eyes and her lungs on the verge of collapsing in her chest.

 

“ _Shit.”_ Arya curses, “Sansa. Sansa, I didn’t…”

 

“I need to finish studying.” She says robotically and she turns around, her hands trembling at her sides, knees weak and she can hear her sister following, pausing at the bottom of the stairs, “Sansa, _please_. I didn’t…fuck, _Sansa_!”

 

The only answer Sansa gives is the sound of her bedroom door slamming shut and Arya’s pleas stop.

 

She sinks into her chair, pulling her legs up and resting her head on her knees, her tears finally spilling over and soaking her skin.

 

_You’re pathetic. You’re weak. You’re worth nothing. You’re nothing but a little bitch._

* * *

A couple of hours later, she hears her father’s footsteps outside her door and listens as he knocks softly, peaking his head in. “Stannis is coming over for dinner with Shireen.” He tells her.

 

“Tonight?”

 

Her father shrugs sheepishly and gives her a soft look. “I couldn’t say no.”

 

She nods, feeling a lump in her throat. “You’re right. It’s…it’s fine. I just…I’ll get ready and help mom.”

 

He nods and steps deeper into her room, placing a kiss atop her head. “Sansa?” He says, pausing to look at her. “I don’t know what happened between you and Arya today, but she seems pretty torn up about it. I get it…I do…sisters fight, but she’s your sister. Try to make up. If not for your sake, then for my sanity, because you know your mother is going to be complaining the entire night.”

 

_“I heard that!”_ Her mother yells from downstairs.

 

Her father rolls his eyes, “and they say the Stark’s have wolf blood. What about the Tully’s?” He mumbles.

_“Eddard Stark, I heard that too!”_

 

Sansa gives him a small smile and stares at her closed door when he walks out of the room, shutting it behind him, she taking deep breath after deep breath.

 

It’s instinctive that she gets out of her chair, strips off her clothes and steps into the shower, trying to wash the day away. She leans her head against the cool tile and closes her eyes.

 

_You really are fucking stupid. Jesus Christ, are you really that fucking pathetic that you run to the fucking Hound? Your tormentor?_

 

(Arya doesn’t understand. None of them would.)

* * *

When she first hears Stannis Baratheon’s voice, she goes rigid. The lump in her throat returning with ferocity, her heart beats faster and her blood pounds in her veins. It feels like she’s underwater, when she finally catches sight of him. He’s taller than she remembers, face more drawn in. He’s tired, she realizes, though she doesn’t know if he’s tired from politics or from always looking behind his shoulder.

 

“Sansa!” Shireen exclaims, her eyes lighting up and her face crinkling with a smile, the scar on the side of her face becoming more prominent.

 

It makes her stomach clench harder. Shireen has always had the scar, Sansa knows this, but looking at her face reminds her of another scarred face and she lets out a breath. Shireen weaves through the people and launches herself at Sansa when she’s within arm’s length. Her small but strong arms wrap around her waist and she buries her head in her stomach.

 

Shireen has always held an affinity towards Sansa, since the moment she met her and Sansa has always liked her. “I haven’t seen you in _forever_. Rickon said you were gone because you were sick. Are you okay, now?”

 

Sansa blinks and again, her stomach plummets and her chest clenches and she looks up to see Stannis staring at them and her parents staring at Stannis staring at Sansa and Arya and her brothers are watching with wary eyes, darting back and forth. The entire room is wrought with tension and it makes her feel _sick_ to her stomach.

 

She tears her eyes away from Stannis and looks down at Shireen, giving her a small, if somewhat pained smile and holds her a bit closer.

 

She doesn’t say anything.

 

(She doesn’t have the courage to lie to her, to anyone, not anymore.)

* * *

Dinner isn’t as tense as she thinks it would be. She plays with her food (it tastes like ash in her mouth) and Arya sits across from her, staring at her, but Sansa continues to stare at her plate.

 

When it comes to clearing the table, she helps her mom and keeps an ear on the conversation her dad and Stannis are having.

 

“…it will be Davos, yourself, Melisandre and I, going.”

 

“And it’s just to meet with the developers.”

 

“I want to ensure I have the right people behind me.”

 

“Daenerys is a good person. She is equal and loves her company and the people who work for her.”

 

“I want to be the judge of the people who work for her.” Stannis says.

 

_My work, we’re building a number of his apartment complexes._

 

“We won’t bore you ladies with business talk.” Her father says, coming around to kiss her both her mother and herself on the cheek. “We’ll be in my study.”

 

Sansa nods and looks up, finding Stannis’ eyes on her and she looks away, fidgeting with the cup in her hands.

 

_My work, we’re building a number of his apartment complexes._

_I want to be the judge of the people who work for her._

 

Her breath catches as realization slams into her and suddenly she grows weak, leaning forward, gripping the counter with her hands.

 

_My work, we’re building a number of his apartment complexes._

_I want to be the judge of the people who work for her._

 

_Sandor_ , she thinks wildly, her eyes darting down the hall, to the closed door of her father’s study.

 

_My work, we’re building a number of his apartment complexes._

_I want to be the judge of the people who work for her._

* * *

She pretends to be watching television from her spot at the kitchen table, one eye on Rickon, Bran and Shireen and her other eye darting down the hall, to the closed door of her father’s study.

 

After an hour, the door opens and Stannis walks out, walking down towards her and entering the small bathroom off to the side. Sansa looks at her brothers and Shireen again and then moves from her spot, standing in front of the door, waiting for Stannis to finish.

 

She feels like a creep for waiting like this. She feels like she has no right to do this. No right to even ask for a moment of his time, but this isn’t about her. It’s about Sandor and the veiled threat she knows Stannis made.

 

(She has seen the Baratheon form of judgment and she wouldn’t want to inflict it on anyone, especially not Sandor.)

 

She’s jolted from her thoughts when she hears the toilet flush, the water run and then the door open.

 

He doesn’t look surprised to see her; he leans against the doorframe and cocks an eyebrow.

 

She takes a shaky breath and gives him half a smile, bile already forming in the pit of her stomach. “Mr. Baratheon, can I just have-”

 

“It’s Stannis, Sansa. Just call me Stannis.” His voice is soft but wary.

 

She nods, hands wringing behind her back. “Stannis.” She corrects. “I…I overheard you and my father talking about the meeting tomorrow and I just…well…you see…my friend is going to be there. Or well…he’s going to be working for you.”

 

“Does your friend have a name?” The way he says it is almost mocking as if he already knows what she’s going to say and maybe he does.

 

Sansa nods, “Sandor Clegane.”

 

There is a hiss that comes out of Stannis’ mouth and Sansa can feel his fury emit from him. She scrambles for words and finds herself clinging to his arm. “I don’t have a right to ask you this, I don’t…I _know_ I don’t…my god, I swear…I’m _so_ sorry, for what happened. For _everything_ , but you know my father, you know his integrity so, please, _please_ , even though I have never given anyone a reason, believe _my_ integrity. Sandor…he’s…he’s a _good_ man.” She winces at his glare. “ _He is_.” She takes a deep breath and lets go of his arm. “When…when Joffrey did…what he did to me…” she stumbles over the words, angry at herself for not even being able to accomplish this _one little thing_ , this one little favor for the man who has already done so much for her, “he is a _kind_ man.” She settles on saying, “he’s…he’s misunderstood by just about everyone, but he _is_ a kind man. I know his gentleness first hand and he is a good man. One of the best. He is truthful and…and…I am asking you…please. _Please_ give him a chance.”

 

“He burned my house down with me and my daughter in it.”

 

“I know.” She says, her voice croaking. “I _know_ , but that was because Joffrey told him to, and that’s not an excuse, _I know it’s not_ , but you have to understand what it was _like_ being with Joffrey and having him…” she trails off, her eyes burning. She takes a deep breath, her chest tightening, “Sandor…he’s not like that. He’s not…he’s not happy about what he did. Will you give him a chance? I know…I know what you mean by being the judge.” She takes a deep breath, despite the thundering of her heart and looks him in the eyes, “Joffrey was my judge, jury and executioner.”

 

Stannis recoils at being compared to Joffrey and he narrows his eyes at her, stepping forward. “Why should I?”

 

She straightens her back when she answers him, trying to muster up all the energy she has. “Because if I didn’t tell my father that night, if he didn’t call and warn you, Joffrey would have succeeded in having you and your daughter killed. _You owe me,_ _Mr. Baratheon_.”

 

He’s silent and then he leans closer to her, “And you’re wasting it on an old scarred dog?”

 

She takes a step backwards, “you wouldn’t understand.” _No one does._

 

Stannis straightens up and looks down at her. “No.” He muses. “I suppose I don’t. _One chance_ , Sansa. _One. Fucking. Chance_.” And then he slinks off down the hallway, closing her father’s study door behind him.

 

Sansa makes her way to the kitchen, collapsing onto an empty chair and she starts to chuckle and then she starts to laugh, until tears sting her eyes and her brothers and Shireen are looking at her like she’s lost her mind.

 

_Maybe I have_ , she thinks. _Maybe, I have._

* * *

His apartment is neater and cleaner than she thought it would be. She stands in the middle of his living room, looking at the sparse furniture and the small television. _He lives a simple life,_ she thinks, _no fuss, no worry, just the necessities_. Her eyes cut towards him as he awkwardly pulls on his shirt and she bites back a small groan of disappointment.

 

She’s seen naked men before (when she lived with Jon and Robb, there were a lot of awkward run-ins on the way in and out of the bathroom the three of them shared.) She saw Joffrey naked, the first and only time they had sex (it was when she thought she was in love with him, before he turned abusive and monstrous but it was still the worst experience in her life, it hurt too much, he went too fast and he laughed when she cried) and she can’t help but compare Joffrey’s body to Sandor’s.

 

Where Joffrey is pale and smooth, almost porcelain, Sandor is tanned, muscular, scarred and burned. She finds herself thinking that he looks like how a man is _supposed_ to look like and she bites her lip, turning her face, cheeks flushing when he cocks an eyebrow at her.

 

“What happened to your hand?” She asks, her voice hoarse.

 

He glances down at it, “I punched a mirror.”

 

“Why?”

 

He frowns at her, eyes roving over her and there is a heat that spreads throughout her body, starting from her head to her toes. “Why do I do anything, little bird? Because I’m angry.”

 

She can feel herself nod and feels her mouth open, lips forming an _O_ shape.

 

“Why are you here?” He asks her, warily, almost hesitantly.

 

Why _is_ she here? Because she couldn’t get him out of her mind? Because she didn’t want their last interaction to be the one they had at the house? Because she didn’t want him to think that _she_ thinks he’s a monster, an arsonist, her tormentor come to life? Because she wants a kiss? She frowns to herself. Since Joffrey, there’s been no one else, no other man that she could bare to even let herself be alone with, for fear of them turning into a replicate of Joffrey. She knows it’s stupid, she knows it’s irrational, because Joffrey…well, Joffrey is one of a kind, he’s a certain breed of despicable.

 

Not all men are like Joffrey, some are, but not all of them.

 

Sandor Clegane is nothing like Joffrey.

 

_Does he frighten you?_

_He used to, but not anymore_.

 

She clears her throat and perches on the armrest of his worn out couch. “I’m here because I want to be.” She answers him truthfully.

* * *

There is a weird sense of déjà vu, sitting on the floor, next to Sandor, their backs pressed against the couch, legs outstretched in front of them. He’s nursing his second beer that night and she’s picking the label off her water bottle. They’ve lapsed into a comfortable silence and Sansa finds that they do this a lot, talk until they find the need to stop talking, letting the silence overcome them in a familiar sort of way.

 

She wonders what he thinks about during these lapses. She wonders if he thinks about his brother, or Joffrey, or fire. She wonders if he thinks about _her_. Does she ever cross his mind as _anything_ other than a little chirping bird?

 

“You’re thinking too loudly.” He says gruffly and the raspy tone of his voice makes the hairs on her body stand on end.

 

She twists her body around, until she’s perched on her knees beside him. “You can hear me think now, is that it?” She teases him softly.

 

A wry grin tugs at the corner of his lips and he inclines his head, turning it slightly so he can look at her. “Anyone could hear that mind of yours churning away.”

 

_But you’re not just anyone,_ she wants to say, and _I’m not just someone and I’m thinking of you, can’t you tell? I think you’re starting to consume me._ Her hand lifts, the tips of her fingers, running softly, gently brushing against his hair. It’s softer, silkier than she imagined it. “And yet, I don’t know what you think about.” She says quietly.

 

“My thoughts are not a place you want to be, little bird.” He tells her and he says it so matter-of-factly, so nonchalantly, that it aches and pulls on her heart.

 

“Is it so awful, being you?” She asks.

 

She inches her body closer to his, until she can feel the fabric of his t-shirt and jeans brushing against her body. She inches closer to him, until she can feel the heat of his body and she thinks that maybe, just _maybe_ , if she bends her head and steals a kiss, just a small one, he won’t mind.

 

He turns away from her, scrambling up and running his good hand through his hair. “It’s getting late. Go home.”

 

She nods, a flush of rejection and dejection, stinging her cheeks and eyes. She takes two steps towards the door, no more, no less and she turns around, facing him, her thumbs hooked in the pockets of her shorts, lightly tugging them down with pressure. “If I asked something of you, would you do it?”

 

She thinks she’s pushing this. She doesn’t have a right to ask anymore of him than she already has, but she does because if she doesn’t she thinks she’s going to explode and for once, just this once, this moment, this decision is hers and hers alone. There is no one, nothing else, pressuring her. There is no burning house, just the burning that ignites in the pit of her stomach.

 

He looks at her and doesn’t say anything, just nods and she wonders if he knows then, what she’s going to ask.

 

“ _Kiss me_.” She says it breathily, taking a step towards him. It’s not a question, it’s not even a suggestion, it’s more of a demand and for a moment, just a _moment_ , she feels a bit guilty, because he is not hers to demand anything from.

 

He recoils away from her as if slapped. “You have no idea what you’re asking.”

 

“But I do.” She tells him, anger suddenly flaring in her. She takes another step towards him and he takes one back.

 

“Sansa-”

 

Once when she was younger and it was winter, and they were back north, where they could be free and away from everything people thought they should be, she and her siblings were outside in the snow and Robb crept behind her and before she knew it, the collar of her jacket was being pulled and he rammed a ball of snow down her back, sending her squealing with shock.

 

She’s reminded of that moment now, the moment her name leaves his lips. She crosses the space between them, until she’s in front of him, chest pressed against chest and she can sense his resolve wavering. “My name.” She says, “I think, that’s the first time you’ve ever called me by my name.” Her hands are trembling as she lifts them up and places them on his chest, hands curling and she can feel the thundering of his heart underneath her palms and it’s calming. “I like it.” She decides, “you saying my name.” He breathes in through his nose. “Could you say it again?”

 

He exhales and his hands hesitantly land on her hips. “Sansa.”

 

She bites her lip, entranced at the emotion in his eyes. “Again.”

 

_“Sansa.”_

 

“Sandor.” She replies, testing his name from her mouth, enjoying the way it feels and sounds coming from her. “Can you kiss me now?”

 

She doesn’t want Joffrey’s kisses to be the only ones she remembers.

 

When he still doesn’t do anything, the war evident in his eyes, she reaches up on her tiptoes and presses a small, chaste kiss to the corner of his lips.

 

_It’s the catalyst_ , she thinks, because he turns his head, catching her lips with his own and her heart stops beating. She stops breathing and all she can concentrate on are the vast contrasts between the good side of his lips and the burnt side. It makes her gasp and she lets out a small moan when his tongue brushes against hers. His arms wrap around her waist, crushing her to him and her arms wrap around his neck, pressing incessantly against him, taking in his warmth and strength.

 

It’s unlike any kiss she’s ever received, any kiss she’s ever seen and she thinks the movies and songs, don’t do it justice. He kisses and holds her like a starved man, learning every contour of her mouth and she is just as desperate.

 

She feels her blood pumping faster, feels her heart beat faster and it feels like she’s flying.

 

She pulls away when oxygen is needed and she’s breathing heavily, lifting her eyes to stare at him and finding him staring back at her with hooded eyes. “Thank you.” She breathes, pressing a small kiss to his pulse point on his neck. She repeats the process on his cheeks and the corner of his lips, before finally capturing his lips once again.

 

She’s drowning in him. She’s become addicted to him so easily, so quickly.

 

It’s him who pulls away from her, holding her at arm’s length. “It’s late.” He says, his voice heavy, “go home.”

 

“What if I don’t want to?”

 

His eyes flash and he pins her with a look. “Then we’ll be doing more than just kissing.” He warns her.

 

She bites her lip and nods, her stomach coiling with an unknown emotion.

 

He walks her to the door, keeping a respective distance between them and she turns, hand on the doorknob and gives him a small smile. Before she knows it, she presses a chaste kiss to his lips. It’s quick, fleeting in the moment but she blushes and giggles nonetheless and then she slips out his door, heart still hammering and pulse still pounding.

 

(She’s never felt more alive.)

* * *

It’s late by the time she gets home and her parents are already asleep. She slips off her shoes and silently creeps up to her room, pushing her door open and turning on the lights.

 

It doesn’t take her long to slip out of her clothes and into her pajamas. She can see in the mirror as she washes her face and brushes her teeth that she’s still blushing.

 

She sighs contentedly as she slips into bed, pushing the covers down in the oppressive heat. Less than a minute later, she hears her bedroom door open and she sits up in bed. She breathes in when the moonlight illuminates her sister’s figure.

 

“I didn’t mean it.” Arya whispers, coming to stand next to her bed. “What I said to you. I didn’t mean it. I was just…angry. Frustrated.”

 

“I know.” Sansa replies. And she does. Her sister is many things, she’s impulsive, she’s strong, she’s opinionated, but she’s not cruel, especially not towards her family.

 

“I just want you to be safe again. I want you to be happy again.” There is a pause and a shuffle and Sansa feels her bed dip with Arya’s weight. She can feel her sister’s gaze as she turns on her side. “Are you happy?”

 

Sansa pauses and thinks about the Elder Brother and Myranda Royce who smile and teases her, she thinks about her family, she thinks about Sandor and the weight of his arms around her waist, the way his heart pounds underneath the palm of her hands, the way his mouth molds against hers and the way he kisses her fiercely, with a hint of gentleness. “I think I could be.” She tells her sister truthfully.

 

Arya sighs and nods in the darkness, her small hand reaching out to grab Sansa’s.

 

(They fall asleep like that, hands clasped in the space between them.)

* * *

Her leg is bouncing and she bites her lip, hands digging into the leather underneath her. “I kissed a man, the other day.” Sansa tells the Elder Brother.

 

He doesn’t look surprised and instead her stares at her, gazing softly, no judgment on his face. “How did it feel?” He asks.

 

“Like freedom.”

 

_(You’re free now, little bird. You’re free.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I was going to post this chapter tomorrow, but thought today would be an even better day, lol! Hope you all enjoyed it! HUGE THANK YOU to everyone who has reviewed/kudos'd/bookmarked/favorited/followed/read. You guys are pure love. 
> 
> Also: shoutout to Jillypups, because for some reason AO3 won't allow me to reply to your comment and I don't want to leave you hanging to even remotely feel like I don't appreciate your kind words, because I do. I appreciate ALL OF YOUR KIND WORDS AND SUPPORT! so I went about it the old fashioned way...eh...kind of? LOL. Seriously though, THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH!


	7. Part 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For bestrafemich21

He doesn’t know how long he stares at the wooden door, all he knows is that he stands there, like a besotted idiot, head braced against the cool wood and heart beating erratically in his chest.

 

He knew he shouldn’t have let her in, because now, he can’t seem to let her go. Even as he walks through his living room, everything seems empty, bare. He picks up the empty bottles, throwing them in the trash; he opens the fridge and then closes it, only to open it again. He turns on the television, begging for any sort of distraction, but when all he sees is the news, he switches it off.

 

(He was right. She tastes of lemon and strawberries and something vanilla and she’s fucking _intoxicating_.)

 

He _knew_ he shouldn’t have let her in.

 

He was going to deny her. He was going to send her away and he did, he _warned_ her to leave, to not be around him, because he’s _not_ a prince. Despite what she says, he’s _not_ a good man, not with everything he’s done. And this… _this_ is exactly why. Because a better man would have resisted her. A better man would have sent her on her way to her family and a life away from this, away from him. He’s almost twice her fucking age, well into his thirties, his face is scarred, he’s entirely too opinionated to give a flying fuck about anyone else and yet this little slip of a girl ( _young woman_ , he reminds himself to ease the rising bile in his stomach, _she’s a young woman_ ) makes him forget about the age gap, she makes him forget about his scars and she makes him forget how to breathe, talk and function properly.

 

He _knew_ he shouldn’t have let her in.

 

He’s hard when he into the shower, reimagining how her breasts feel against his chest, the way her arms feel around his neck, pulling him closer to her and her tongue darting into his mouth, tasting him, devouring him. He remembers the way she trembles against him and moans into his mouth, the sound reverberating between them and all he can remember hearing is the blood rushing to his ears. He remembers the way she smells, lemons and strawberries and something vanilla and it makes him press her closer to him, itching to feel her skin.

 

He doesn’t think she knows half of what she does to him, half of what she’s _always_ done to him.

 

He falls into bed, not bothering to dry off properly, clumsily slipping on a pair of boxers, and attempts to sleep. But even in sleep, all he can think about, all he can remember, is her. Sansa fucking Stark and the way she looks at him, the way she bites her lip, the way she tastes, the way she trembles and the way she keeps on catching his lips as if she’s as addicted to him as he is to her.

 

He _knew_ she shouldn’t have let her in.

 

(But he did and now, he can’t seem to let her go.)

* * *

“I kissed someone.” He tells the Elder Brother as he sinks into the leather couch. He says it quietly, casually, as if this isn’t a big deal. (He wants to tell himself that it’s _not_. He’s kissed other women before, he’s fucked other women before, but those women weren’t Sansa and ever since she walked into his life, with wide bright blue eyes and hair the color of fire, all he can _think_ about is her.)

 

The Elder Brother doesn’t look surprised and instead, he stares at him, gazing softly, no judgment on his face. Sandor wants to know if he would stay partial to no judgment if he found out who he kissed and the fucking things that went through his mind afterwards. “How did it feel?” He asks him.

 

_How did it feel? It felt like heaven, or whatever is close to it. It felt like pure goodness and I have not idea what the fuck to do with it_. “Terrifying.” He admits, folding his arms over his chest.

* * *

Somehow he’s not surprised to see Sansa in the reception area after he leaves the Elder Brother’s office. He expects to see her in the chair, back straight, hands wringing in her lap and legs crossed at the ankles. Except now, she’s standing in front of the reception desk, smile splitting her face, cheeks red from laughing as the receptionist is in the middle of telling a story, complete with lewd hand gestures and facial expressions.

 

“’Randa,” Sansa breathes, holding her sides, “stop it. I’m dying.”

 

“That’s what I said!” The receptionist, Randa (not like Sandor ever bothered to get her name and not like he fucking cares, the girl is a pain in his ass most days) and Sansa break out into giggles.

 

“Sansa?” The Elder Brother calls out.

 

Sansa whips around and if possible, her smile gets wider when she sees him and his chest clenches. _Fuck. Just Fuck._

 

She walks towards him and he wants to tell her to stay where she is, to not come any closer because if she does, he’s going to _fucking explode._ She reaches out to him, like she’s done a dozen other times and this time, he flinches from her, recoiling and he should feel happy at the shock, disappointed and hurt look on her face, because this is what he does, this is what he knows how to do and that’s hurting people.

 

He’s not gentle. He’s not kind. He’s not misunderstood. He’s not a good man (no matter how much he wants to be for her.)

 

Her eyes harden and she clenches her hands into fists. “Stay.” She says, her voice harder than he’s ever heard from her.

 

“Got things to do, little bird.” Like wallow in his self-induced pity.

 

“You will stay.” It’s not a question. It’s not even a suggestion, it’s a demand.

 

And like the dog he is, like the dog he’s been trained to be, he listens.

* * *

“Well,” the receptionist says as soon as the door closes behind Sansa, “glad to see that you’re still completely fucking _stupid.”_

 

“No one asked for your opinion.” Sandor snaps at her.

 

“I don’t give a shit.” She shoots back. “Is it because you think you’re not good enough for her?”

 

“It’s none of your fucking business.”

 

She lets out a shrill laugh and then she leans over the desk. “Let me tell you something, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter what _you_ or _anyone else_ think. She,” she says, pointing a finger at the closed door, “thinks you’re good for her. She’s _happy_ when you’re around, or are you just completely and totally blind to that?”

 

“Shut the fuck up.”

 

She rolls her eyes and then writes a date on the card, sliding it over the counter towards him. “You two have been through hell and back, don’t you think it’s high time for a little bit of happiness?”

 

(He’s not used to happiness. He doesn’t know what to do with it and he knows that if he lets himself pretend to be happy, it will all come crashing down and Sandor doesn’t know if he can handle getting burned for a third time.)

* * *

They’re walking side by side, taking their time against the current of people. He steadies her a few times, when she gets bumped into and she takes that time to slip her hand in his, interlacing their fingers until he’s not sure where he ends and she begins. She gives him a small smile and pulls him along, opening the door to the small coffee shop they first visited.

 

He has a black coffee and she has the same red slush. (He still doesn’t know what it’s called, doesn’t particularly care for the name, just that she tastes like it.)

 

They fall into silence and Sandor can see from his periphery, people staring at him and his scars and then the people staring at Sansa, their unasked question burning in their eyes.

 

He eyes the condensation on Sansa’s cup and he almost jolts when cold, slightly damp fingers hesitantly trace his own. He looks up and sees Sansa staring intently at the patterns her fingertips draw.

 

“We kissed.” Sansa says.

 

“I was there.”

 

She gives him half a smile. “I would like to keep kissing.” She blushes deeply and bows her head, “quite possibly more than that, as well.”

 

All the blood rushes out of his body and he sits, transfixed at the sight of her. He doesn’t know how long he stares at her, long enough to make her fidget, long enough for her to look away and then shyly look back at him again, long enough for her fingers to slip through his, long enough to gain even more attention.

 

He thinks it’s too good to be true. He’s never had one good thing in his life and the one good thing he did have, even if it was just for a moment, was the reason for half his face getting burnt off. He won’t ever admit, but he’s a little terrified. Terrified, that this slip of a girl, with hair as bright as fire will burn him over and over again.

 

(He finds he’s okay with that. So long as it’s her. So long as it’s _always_ her.)

 

She takes a shuddering deep breath and he sees the way her brows frown, “if you don’t…I mean I’m not…” she flounders for words but he reads her meaning quick enough.

 

And he feels _furious_. Furious because out of the two of them, he knows he’s not good enough for her. He’s old, he’s cranky, he’s too rough, and he’s everything her parents tell her to stay away from her. But he’ll protect her. He’ll fucking _kill_ for her and he thinks that has to count for something.

 

He’s not good with words. He’s not good with emotions or expressing himself, he never has been, so he doesn’t say anything (partly because if he does, he thinks he’ll make her cry again and partly because he _can’t,_ the words getting stuck in his throat), instead, he squeezes her fingers tightly, quickly, before letting them relax and he hopes she gets the message.

 

Judging by the bright smile on her face and the way her blush seems to intensify, he knows she does.

* * *

It becomes a routine for them, he’ll sometimes go over to her house, mostly when she’s alone, or when it’s just her bitch of a sister there. He doesn’t stay long, just long enough for her to kiss him and giggle against his lips.

 

She stays longer at his apartment though and it’s those days, those nights, that he looks forward to. She makes herself at home, feet propped up on the table, books spread about as she scrambles to study and finish papers. Those days, those nights, he tends to leave her alone, opting to lie in his bed and when he wakes, it’s usually to kisses and slightly cold hands touching his chest and the smell of lemons and strawberries and a hint of vanilla.

 

(She drives him fucking crazy most of the times but Jesus Christ, he’d never trade it for anything.)

 

But he’s happy. For once in his miserable life, he’s fucking happy. He’s spent the majority of his life, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for shit to hit the proverbial fan and he was okay with that. He was content with happiness never being a prominent fixture in his life. It’s his penitence, his sacrifice for everything he did.

 

And then Sansa fucking Stark came waltzing into his life and blew it to fucking pieces.

 

So, when the other shoe does manage to drop and when shit does hit the proverbial fan, he’s not surprised.

 

(It happens in increments, a slow burn, so-to-speak.)

* * *

He knows something is wrong when he walks into his apartment after a grueling day at work.

 

He and the others knew this wouldn’t be easy. He knew that they would meet resistance and problems, but he doesn’t think he’s ever encountered so _many_ problems, trying to build complexes than with Stannis’ developments. He almost groans with contractors backing out and then scrambling to find others willing to risk the ire of the Baratheon’s and Lannister’s and then the city, the fucking city, which apparently has new rules and procedures that they have to adhere to, often making it impossible to work.

 

_“This is bullshit.” Bronn spits out. “Utter and complete fucking bullshit.”_

_“Nothing we can do, can we?” Jorah sighs, running a hand across his face. “Dany’s meeting with the lawyers, trying to find a way around this.”_

_“It’s all a fucking conspiracy.” Bronn laments._

 

_Sandor barks out a laugh. “`Course it is. This is the Baratheon’s and Lannister’s we’re up against. We’re lucky if they don’t have us murdered in our sleep.”_

 

It doesn’t help that Stannis is watching his every move.

 

Or that Ned Stark keeps looking at him strangely, not saying anything but something raging beneath his calm exterior.

 

His apartment is quiet when he enters it, locking the door behind him. He can hear the soft sound of the television and he walks into the living room, finding it empty. Frowning, he grabs the remote, turning the television off and throwing the remote on the empty couch, scratching his temple and kicking off his shoes as he shoulders into his room.

 

When he turns the light on, he sees her and he comes to a full stop. She’s breathing deeply, face and eyes twitching with the sudden onslaught of light. She’s wearing one of his sweaters. It’s huge on her, coming down to her knees and her hair is tousled, face creased with pillow lines. She opens her eyes and blinks sleepily at him.

 

He frowns as something tugs at the pit of his stomach and he strips out of his shirt and pants and crawls into bed with her. She automatically falls into him, arms going around him, breathing him in deeply. “Little bird?” He asks.

 

She shakes her head and he can feel her start to tremble and something claws within him. He grabs her hand and sits up, dragging her with him, the sleeve of his shirt shifting down her arm. There is a bruise marring her wrist. “Where did you get this?” His voice is dangerously low and there is something tearing through him and all he wants to do is _kill_ the person who hurt her.

 

She pulls her hand out of his and brings the sleeve back down. She lets out a sigh; eyes blinking rapidly to stop the pooling of unshed tears. She’s quiet until she opens her mouth and speaks, “it was an accident.” She says slowly, “this guy…he thought I was someone else.”

 

She’s _lying_. He knows she is because Sansa is a horrible liar. “You’re lying.” He tells her, outing her secret.

 

She nods slowly, “I am.” She pushes him down on the bed and curls into him. “But I don’t…I don’t want to think about it. Ever again.” She kisses his pulse point and buries her head in his neck. “Just…don’t let me go, okay?” She mumbles against his skin, falling into a restless sleep.

 

He stays awake that night, even though his body is exhausted and he pushes the sleeve up her arm again and studies the bruise. He traces it lightly, soft enough not to wake her.

 

He freezes in his place, blood rushing from him when he realizes why there is a deep pit in his stomach. He recognizes this bruise. He _knows_ this bruise.

 

(It was the first bruise Joffrey ever gave her, gripping her wrist tightly, until she cried out, twisting away from him, purple already settling onto her skin.)

 

_I don’t want to think about it. Ever again._

 

He squeezes her to him, pressing a kiss to her forehead as she mutters incoherently in her sleep and he succeeds in not getting out of bed and killing every Baratheon and Lannister.

 

(Just barely.)

* * *

When Daenerys and Stannis, followed by Davos walk into their trailer, Sandor knows it’s not good. Stannis’ jaw ticks, his fists clenching, Davos stands silently behind them, eyes downward and Daenerys’ cheeks are flushed, eyes red and rimmed with unshed tears.

 

It’s late in the day, the workers have gone home, the sun is starting to set and Jorah, Bronn and Sandor stay behind, trying to figure out ways to fuck the system that is fucking with their livelihood.

 

“What happened?” He grumbles, his eyes scan the doorway, expecting to see a fourth head and when he doesn’t appear, Sandor feels his stomach lurch. He doesn’t know what happened to Ned Stark, (and he feels only slightly guilty when he only thinks the worst and his mind goes to his little bird, bruise marring her porcelain skin and anger bubbles up inside of him), all he knows is that something _has_ happened to Ned Stark.

 

(Sansa hasn’t messaged him for nearly six hours and usually, he wouldn’t think much about it, except now, there is a nagging feeling in the back of his head and he thinks he maybe should have messaged her. But he didn’t.)

 

“Ned Stark,” Stannis says and Sandor sucks in a deep breath, “was in a car accident earlier today. An SUV ran a red light and T-boned him into a railing.”

 

“Christ.” Jorah breathes, “Is he…?”

 

_Dead,_ Sandor thinks desperately, eyes flitting towards the screen on his phone that stays black, _is he dead?_

 

Daenerys clears her throat, “He’s in a medically induced coma. It’s hard to tell but…” she trails off and Sandor doesn’t hear the rest of it, he pushes past Jorah and Bronn and sidesteps Danerys and he’s almost at the door, fingers grazing the bronze of the doorknob when he feels a hand latch around his bicep.

 

“She’s devastated.” Stannis states, his eyes narrowing, “Do not-”

 

He doesn’t have to specify which _she,_ Sandor knows who he’s talking about and he flares, eyes wide and he bares his teeth to Stannis. “Get your fucking hand off of me.” _And don’t ever fucking mention her again._ He shrugs his hand off of him and storms out the trailer, getting into his truck and making his way to the hospital.

 

(He only realizes he’s forgotten his phone when he arrives at the hospital and doesn’t know where to go.)

* * *

She’s sitting outside the room, curled on an uncomfortable chair, in an equally uncomfortable position. Even from down the hall, he can see the tear tracks that stain her cheeks and he can see her body trembling from shock, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. Her younger brothers are across from her. The youngest taking up a few chairs as he lays sleeping and the other one in his wheelchair, his hand running through the hair on his younger brother’s head.

 

It’s an intimate family moment and not for the first time, he finds that he doesn’t belong here. With them. With _her_. As if his presence taints the moment solely meant for the siblings.

 

He goes to retreat and she looks up then, her head snapping towards him and her eyes widening and it only takes a moment, for him to recognize that she’s out of her chair and _flying_ towards him, her sobs reaching his ears as she throws herself into his arms.

 

She’s a tiny slip of a girl, long with lean legs, thin and dainty arms, but with the force of her, he stumbles back, arms wrapping around her waist and holding her tightly to him. She smells like disinfectant and tears and a little bit of blood but even beneath all that he can smell lemons and strawberries and a hint of vanilla and it makes him close his eyes and drown in the scent of her. Just her. _Only ever her._

 

“ _Oh God.”_ She sobs and she shakes even harder, crying into his shoulder, his neck, his chest and Sandor holds her tighter, not knowing what else to do.

 

“I got you.” He whispers into her ear, hiding his scarred face in her hair, “I got you.”

 

_Just don’t let me go…okay?_

* * *

(The day they get permission to finally, finally, start building again, is the day their development gets burnt to the ground.)

 

He told himself he would never face fire again. He told himself that if the time came and he would be burned a third time, it would be on his own terms. Except, he should know that when it comes to the Baratheon’s and Lannister’s, nothing is _ever_ on his own terms.

 

He can’t breathe and it’s partly to due with the sudden fear that has encased his entire body and partly due to all the smoke that envelops them.

 

The fire cackles and bursts into higher flames and in the distance he can hear the sirens and he thinks, _too little too late_. It’s _always_ too little too late.

 

Stannis is there, Davos next to him and the unnamed woman dressed in red. She stares into the flames like it’s a fucking gift and he wants to throttle her neck. Daenerys is there and she’s standing ramrod straight, rage in her eyes.

 

There is rage in everyone’s eyes.

 

He thinks there may be fear in his.

 

He can’t keep his eyes off the flames and he gags with the smell and when he closes his eyes all he can think of is when he was a little boy and the rip-roaring pain of feeling his skin burn and peel off, all he can remember is Gregor’s horrendous laugh and his screams, and flash forward decades and some odd years later and all he can remember is the maniacal laughter of a blonde little shit who’s too spoiled and much too sadistic for his own good as he watches a house burn down.

 

His heart is thundering, his blood is pumping through his veins and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He wants to run, he wants to scream, there is a part of him that may even want to cry.

 

“Is it everything you remember?” Stannis hisses in his ears.

 

“Go fuck yourself.” Sandor snaps, twisting his head, “you blame everyone else for everything that has happened to you but you never blame yourself. No one fucking told you to go into politics. No one told you to go up against your crazy as fuck nephew and his equally as crazy bitch of a mother. _This_. _Everything_. _It’s all on you_.” He turns his head and flinches from the heat of the fire, “not me.” He takes in a deep breath and clenches his fists until his fingernails break the skin, “So, go fuck yourself.”

 

He turns around, pushes past him and ignores Jorah’s calls. He only concentrates on the sound of his beating heart as he gets into his truck and drives away, speeding past the fire trucks that are too little too late.

 

(They’re always too little too late.)

* * *

It starts when he slams the door to his apartment. Then he upturns the foyer table. Then the living room table. Then a few glasses laying around and a couple of empty beer bottles, hearing and relishing in the breaking of glass, mindless to it cutting his skin.

 

He roars and screams (like he did all those decades and some odd years ago when Gregor held his face in the fire and damned him to the deepest pit of hell and despair) and he rips apart his bedding, blood smearing them and he thinks this has all been years (decades and some odd years) in the making. He downs the rest of his bottle of whiskey that he swipes from the cabinet, the amber liquid burning his throat, making him cough as he ingests too much at one time. Then, he goes back to destroying his apartment. (Because he _can_. Because it’s what he _knows how to do_. Destroy things.)

 

He collapses in a heap on his destroyed bed and falls into a fitful sleep.

 

(He dreams of fire and a little bird chirping.)

* * *

When he wakes up, the sky is just starting to light up, swirls of pink and red and orange and he grimaces against his headache and feels like vomiting when someone shifts beside him. He freezes, body tensing and mind racing and then he calms down when he recognizes the fading bruise on her dainty wrist and smells lemon and strawberries and a hint of vanilla underneath the smell of ash, blood and alcohol.

 

He groans, partly because of his headache and partly because he smells like fire.

 

She squeezes her arms around him tighter, her fingers curling into his chest. She presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “It’s okay,” she mumbles, her breath hot against his skin, “it’s okay. I got you.”

 

She repeats his words back to her and for some reason he can’t help but laugh.

 

And so, he laughs. And laughs, until he starts crying.

 

_It’s okay. I got you._

_Just don’t let me go…okay?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH! Seriously, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! It was a bit heartbreaking to write, so I'm really nervous about it, but hopefully you all like it! Your guys' kind words mean the world to me! Thank you so so much!!!


	8. Part 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For bestrafemich21
> 
> Also...there is specific mention and description of violence against Sansa. Just giving you a head's up in case this trigger's anyone. Please heed the warning. This being said, I hope you all enjoy!

It’s stupid on her part. It’s _so incredibly stupid_. She never studies in the library and when she does stay on campus, she doesn’t stay late, but she needs research that the internet isn’t able to provide her, so she stays at the campus library until the sun goes down and she wipes her eyes, stifling a yawn and shoving her things in her bag.

 

She gives a smile to the librarian who smiles back and bids her goodnight.

 

All she wants is a shower, or maybe a bath, quite possibly a glass of wine.

 

She didn’t park her car far, she never does, and she shifts her bag closer to her chest, hand gripping on the strap as she looks around her. While the sun has set, the sky has settled into a dark blue, signifying the deep night about to settle in. Stars are already twinkling in their place in the sky and Sansa looks up, breathing in the warm air as she stares at the bright yellow dots in the sky, smiling softly.

 

_“It’ll be a cold one.” She tells him quietly, head against the window, relishing in the coolness on her forehead._

_She can feel his warm breath across her neck, her shoulder, her ear, as he nips at it and she stifles a moan when his hands land on her hips, fingers spanning across them, holding her pelvis and pressing against her. “What’ll be a cold one?” He asks. His voice is raspy and hoarse and Sansa wishes he would talk more because she loves the way his voice sounds, especially when he whispers against her skin, igniting a fire deep within her._

_“Winter. It’ll be a cold one this year.”_

_He barks out a laugh. “It’s still summer, little bird. Winter is still a far way ahead and we have to get through the fall first.”_

_She shakes her hand and places her hands over his and interlacing their fingers. “Winter is always close and it’s always coming.”_

_He rasps vulgar and crude things in her ears and she giggles and moans and she turns around in his arms, wrapping herself around him and kissing him soundly, eager to feel more of him._

 

Sometimes, all she wants to do is drown in him and she wonders if he’ll let her.

 

She doesn’t watch where she’s going until she bumps into a thin but solid chest. She lets out a shriek and backs away, only to bump into two more chests behind her and fear grips her. It encases her heart in ice as she stares into two eyes that are narrowed into slits.

 

“Just who I was looking for. The Stark bitch.” His voice hasn’t changed. It’s the first thing she notices and then she curses herself for her stupidity. He lets out a laugh and its shrill, it’s the same laugh she’s heard countless times before when he had her beaten and bruised and bloodied. “But then again, you like being mounted by a scarred old fucking dog, so what can I expect?” His eyes go hard and Sansa recognizes the intent. Before she can run, before she can fight back, before she can do anything, he has her wrist in a tight grip and she lets out a whimper. He yanks her closer to him and she stumbles forward, trying to get out of his grasp. “You are such a fucking cunt. You know that? You’re _still_ so fucking pathetic and I’m glad to be rid of you. You’re useless, fucking worthless. Mother always did tell me I could do better than you and you know what? I _have_.”

 

She twists in his grip, “then why are you here?” She hisses through gritted teeth.

 

His grin is feral and his eyes cut to the two men behind her. “The little bitch has grown claws has she?” He grips her tighter and she lets out a cry as she feels her bones grinding and pain erupting up her arm. He puts his mouth to her ear and Sansa struggles against him, tears pooling in her eyes as all the memories of him and what he’s done to her, to Sandor, to everyone, play before her eyes like some fucked up movie. “I’m here to remind you of what happens to people who decide to fuck me over, Sansa. I promised you I’d see every single one of you fucking Starks dead and I mean to keep my promise.”

 

“Joffrey!” A familiar voice calls out in the night and Joffrey instantly lets go, his face morphing into a honed smile. Sansa tumbles away from him, bracing herself against an unknown car and away from him, Blount and Trant. Margaery is wearing heels and she’s still in her jeans and shirt from earlier today, when Sansa saw her briefly in the hallway. “I didn’t know you planned to pick me up.”

 

“I would hate for you to drive alone, sweetheart.”

 

Margaery smiles at him but Sansa notices a glint in her eyes. “Aw, you’re _too_ sweet.” She slinks up to him and presses a quick kiss to her cheek. “But I’m not going to be alone. Loras is coming. Remember, I told you I was going home tonight. My grandmother is visiting and she wants all of us together.”

 

He simpers at her, “I can’t wait to meet your grandmother.”

 

Margaery smiles and it’s a secret smile, one that Sansa has seen one too many times on Arya’s face as she sneaks a pack of beer into her room. “Oh. You have _no_ idea how much my grandmother is eager to meet you as well.” She steps away from him and makes a shooing motion with her hands. “Now,” she says, crossing over and linking her arm with Sansa. “Leave us to our girl talk. I have _so_ much to catch up with Sansa about.”

 

Joffrey throws Sansa a malicious look. “Be sure to tell her the good news.”

 

He kisses Margeary and Sansa gags at the sudden smell of his cologne and shifts away from him, her eyes trained to the ground as he walks away with Blount and Trant. When she can’t see them anymore, Sansa slips her arm out of Margaery’s grasp, ignoring her hurt look.

 

“Sansa,” Margaery calls out softly, “I know you don’t like me right now and frankly, I don’t blame you, but you _need_ to listen to me.”

 

She reaches out for her and Sansa catches the glint of her diamond ring and her eyes grow wide as a saucer. “You’re _marrying_ him?” Sansa croaks and it’s not because she’s sad, or even remotely upset that he’s marrying someone else, in fact, Sansa is almost gleeful, but she can hardly believe that _Margaery Tyrell_ would willingly tie herself to Joffrey, _knowing_ the sort of monster he is. “Are you stupid? You know what he’s capable of.”

 

Margaery nods slowly. “I do. You do as well, which is what I’m here to tell you. Sansa, you have to be careful.”

 

“What are you talking about?” She asks, her stomach sinking. “What do you know?”

 

Margaery shakes her head. “He’s out for blood and I’m trying to stop him but he’s heard about you and his Dog-”

 

“ _Sandor_ is not his dog and don’t you ever _fucking_ call him that.” Sansa snaps, baring her teeth to Margaery, not even feeling bad about cursing. She thinks Arya and Sandor would be proud.

 

Margaery gapes at her and takes a step back, only for her lips to curl into a smirk, one meticulously plucked brow cocked as she looks at her proudly. “He’s heard about you and _Sandor,”_ Margaery corrects, “and he’s out for blood. Particularly yours. You’re my friend Sansa. I protect my friends.”

 

“You should protect yourself.” Sansa points out. “You’re marrying a monster.”

 

Margaery lips thin and her eyes glint with many secrets and Sansa wonders if she ever really knew her at all. She crosses the distance between them and kisses Sansa’s cheek softly, her fingertips grazing the blooming bruise on her wrist. “I never wanted to see you hurt Sansa and he’ll get what’s coming to him.” The corners of her mouth twitch, resembling a barely there smirk, “that’s a Tyrell promise.”

 

She leaves her and Sansa stumbles to her car, wrist throbbing and mind reeling.

* * *

She means to go home, really she does, except she finds herself staring at a familiar apartment complex and she all but tumbles out of her car, hurrying up the familiar steps and fumbling with her key chains, hurriedly trying to fit it into the lock.

 

_“Here.” He says, sliding a silver key across the table. “For whenever you need it.” He shrugs, as if it’s nothing, giving her a key to his apartment._

_Her heart feels like it’s going to burst and she struggles for a moment, her hands shaking with the meaning and then berating herself because it could mean nothing at all. It could be an easy way to let her in, instead of having her wait in front of his door. When the key finally dangles from its spot amongst her other keys, she looks up and sees him staring at its place on her chain, with hesitance and vulnerability that he barely ever lets her see and her heart is that much closer to exploding. She moves from her spot and settles onto his lap, pressing her forehead against his and just breathes in his scent._

_His hands wrap around her waist, holding her firmly in place._

 

She locks the door as soon as she’s inside, making her way throughout the dark apartment. “Sandor?” She calls out, her voice croaking and breaking, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. “Sandor?” She calls again, this time walking into the bedroom and flicking on the light. He’s not there and she trembles.

 

With jerky movements, she strips out of her clothes, eager to get the stench of Joffrey off her. She’s in her bra and underwear when she snatches an old worn sweater lying on his bed. It’s large and loose on her, but it smells like him and she flicks off the light, diving underneath the covers, sobs overcoming her, curling into the fetal position and cradling her bruised wrist against her stomach.

 

She doesn’t realize she’s fallen asleep until she feels the bed shift with extra weight and her stomach lurches until she inhales his scent and then she falls into him, arms wrapping around him.

 

He mumbles to her and she shakes her head, unable and unwilling to answer him, afraid that she’ll start crying again. God, she’s such a _stupid idiot_. Such a _stupid little bird._

 

When he grabs her hand, the sleeve of the sweater shifts and she can feel his body tense and after a few moments, he asks, “where did you get this?” There is murder in his tone and all Sansa wants to see are his hands ripping Joffrey apart bit by bit. _No_ , she thinks wildly, _that’s for me. That’s for us._

 

_(I am a Stark. We are wolves and we will tear you to pieces.)_

 

So, she feeds him a lie. It’s the first lie she’s ever told him and she feels disgusting and she hates Joffrey all the more for making her lie to him.

 

_He’s heard about you and Sandor and he’s out for blood._

_Be careful Sansa._

 

He calls her out on her lie and she’s not surprised.

 

_A hound will die for you, but never lie to you,_ he once told her. It’s a long lost memory, when she first started dating Joffrey and he cornered her in the hall, warning her against pretty little things with thorns. She was terrified of his scars, of the rage in his eyes, so she didn’t listen.

 

(She wishes she did.)

* * *

When she gets the call that her father is fighting for his life, she feels her world crumble from beneath her feet.

_I promised you I’d see every single one of you fucking Starks dead and I mean to keep my promise._

_He’s out for blood._

_Be careful Sansa._

* * *

The television in the waiting area is turned on to the news and Sansa sits on the uncomfortable couch with her sister and Rickon, Robb and Jon are sitting on the couch opposite them and Bran sits near the door. Sansa runs her hands through Rickon’s hair as he sleeps soundly, his head in her lap and she leans back, her eyes flickering to the television.

 

They spend their nights like this, the entire Stark family (Robb and Jon having flown in as soon as they got their frantic messages) crowded into the waiting area. The nurses and doctors all know them by name and they don’t say anything to them when they stay past visiting hours.

 

“Holy mother of fuck.” Robb says out of the blue, as he reaches for the remote and turns the volume up.

 

The woman on screen is wearing minimal make-up and a navy blue pants suit, microphone in her hands and standing in front of a looming mansion that makes Sansa’s stomach curl with disgust. She knows that house. She’s been inside that house. She’s spent her days and nights in that house. She was beaten black and blue in that house.

 

_“In what should have been the wedding of the century, Joffrey Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell have married in a private ceremony at his house. Guests say that both bride and groom were beaming with happiness and that Baratheon, locked in a heavy feud with his uncle Stannis Baratheon over the upcoming senatorial election, could not have asked for a better wife and family-in law. Baratheon was currently linked to Sansa Stark, a friend of the newly minted Mrs. Baratheon. None of the Starks attended, as their father, Ned Stark, was recently in a car accident. Politically speaking, the Baratheon-Tyrell match is a fantastic match as both families are prominent in-”_

 

Jon shakes his head and grabs the remote from Robb’s hands and flicks the television off. “Enough of that shit.”

 

There is a feeling so intense in her chest that Sansa doesn’t think she can even breathe properly.

 

_He’ll get what’s coming to him._

 

“Maybe he’ll beat her black and blue too.” Arya mutters darkly, eyes glaring at the screen darkly.

 

“Or maybe,” Sansa says slowly, “He’ll finally gets what’s coming to him.”

 

“One can only hope.” Arya responds.

 

Sansa takes a deep breath and shifts, “I saw him.” She confesses. “Before he got married. He…I…saw him.”

 

It’s not even a second before Arya lurches sideways and grabs her arm lifting her sleeve, glaring at the fading bruise on her wrist. “ _You didn’t fucking fall_.”

 

Sansa shakes her head, a lump growing in her throat. “No. I didn’t fall.”

 

There is a moment of blissful silence and then her siblings _erupt._ Even Bran who has never _ever_ wished harm on anyone and who never raises his voice about anything, joins in.

 

A nurse comes rushing in, hissing and snapping at them to quiet down or they’ll be kicked out and they quiet down some, but not by much. Rickon has woken up confused and disoriented from the noise and Sansa holds him tightly, relishing in his warmth.

 

It doesn’t take long for their mother to rush in, her red hair tousled and eyes wide. “What is going on?”

 

And so, Sansa tells them everything and in the end, Rickon is the one with his arms around her as she breaks down and sobs, until she can’t breathe.

 

“Oh,” Her mother says, kneeling down in front of her, eyes full of tears. “Oh, _Sansa.”_

 

“I’m sorry.” Sansa apologizes tearfully, “I’m so _so_ sorry.”

* * *

She’s deep into studying when her phone rings. She answers it without looking. She doesn’t even manage a greeting when her sister’s voice breaks through. “ _Have you seen the news?”_

 

“What? Arya, what’s happening?”

 

Arya hesitates for a moment, _“there’s a fire.”_

 

“Where?” Sansa demands, already getting out of her chair and slipping into her flip-flops.

 

_“At the development site. It’s being burnt to the ground.”_

 

Sansa hangs up and rushes out of the house, her heart and chest in her throat.

 

All she can think of is Sandor and how much he hates fire.

* * *

The firefighters are there when she pulls up at the site and the blaze is larger than she’s ever seen. She can feel the heat from her car. She rushes out and before she can get close, a firefighter grabs her by the waist, “you can’t go through.” He tells her.

 

“No, please.” She coughs from the smoke, “Sandor!” She struggles in his grasp and calls out again, “ _Sandor!”_

 

She can see Stannis coming towards her, and he waves the firefighter off. She can see three other men, a woman in red with red hair staring at her with a curious glance and a sly smile and a younger woman who Sansa recognizes as Dany, Jon’s aunt who he sometimes talks to and who Sansa has seen only sparingly but is always cordial and polite to them.

 

“Where is he?” She gasps, when she scans the faces in the crowd and doesn’t see Sandor anywhere amongst them. “ _Where is he?”_ There is a fear choking her and she thinks she’s going to be sick.

 

“What the fuck is going on here?” A large man grumbles, scratching his head.

 

“Sansa, listen to me,” Stannis says, placing his hands on her shoulders.

 

Sansa twists away from him and her eyes meet the woman dressed in red and she shivers, feeling uncomfortable in the way she looks at her. “Where is Sandor?”

 

“ _Sandor_?” The larger man who spoke earlier nearly chokes over his words, “what the _fuck_ is she- _girl what the fuck are you doing looking for Sandor_?”

 

The red-haired woman cocks her head, “she’s afraid for her lover. He’s not fond of fire.”

 

“ _Lover?_ Jesus Christ. Aren’t you Ned Stark’s eldest daughter? Jorah-did you…? _Fuck,_ I don’t even fucking _care_ anymore. _He’s not_ _here_.”

 

She doesn’t waste any time in elbowing her way past them, words floating to her ears.

 

“Sansa fucking Stark and Sandor? Well, I think I’ve officially seen everything. What a sneaky little bastard. Not telling us a damned thing.”

 

“Shut-up, Bronn.”

 

She gets into her car, eyes burning with the heat of the fire and drives away, the flames growing higher and higher, until it’s all she can see in her rearview mirror.

* * *

She can’t help herself, tears automatically sting her eyes, her hands covering her mouth as she stares at the carnage that used to be his apartment.

 

Tables are flipped, glass is scattered all over the floor as she steps carefully around them, the stench of whiskey and beer takes over the entire apartment and she hides her face under the collar of her shirt, trying to get the smell out of her senses. There are holes in the walls and she traces the large shapes with the pads of her fingertips. She knows his hands, she knows how they look like when they’re clenched into fists and she knows that these holes that litter the walls would be the exact same size of his fists.

 

She stays close to the wall as she walks further into the apartment and down the hall to his room.

 

He’s lying face down on his bed, the scarred side facing her, fast asleep. She can hear his soft snores and she leans against the doorframe, watching him. Her heart _hurts_ when she sees him flinch and mumble, lips turning downward into a frown. Even in his sleep, he doesn’t find any peace. She walks towards the bed and catches sight of the bloodstains and she turns her face when she sees his mangled hands. Biting her lip, she turns around and makes her way into the kitchen, rummaging around in his cupboards and drawers for everything she needs.

 

It takes her two trips, but she finally has everything in his room and she grabs a spare pillow, places it on the floor and kneels down, softly cleaning up his wounds and bandaging his hands.

 

She gives him a kiss, softly, gently, on his forehead and then she goes back into the living room, staring at the mess, hands on her hips and lets out a sigh. She grabs gloves and bags and starts cleaning up what she can.

 

He’ll probably snap at her come morning. He’ll grumble and hiss and snarl that she shouldn’t have cleaned up this mess, his mess, that essentially, it’s not her business, but it _is_. Because his pain is her pain. His fears are her fears and she _knows_ how much he fears and loathes fire.

 

She keeps an ear out for any noise coming from the bedroom and frowns when she hears nothing but the stillness of the night. _He’s lucky that no one called the cops_ , she thinks to herself as she ties the final bag and leaves it off to the side.

 

It’s not how it used to be, but it’s better than how she found it.

 

Suddenly exhausted, Sansa makes her way back to his room and finds him on his side, curled into himself and she hesitates, just for a moment, until she takes a deep breath and climbs into bed with him, shuffling until her chest is flush against his back and her arm wraps around his chest, her other arm coming around, playing with his hair. She leans down until her forehead rests in the crook of his neck.

 

He smells like alcohol, blood and fire and she closes her eyes, suddenly remembering when she saw him at the hospital, standing at the end of the hallway, looking incredibly out of place.

 

(She never really knows how much she needs him until he’s not there.)

 

_I got you_ , he whispered into her hair, her ear, her neck, _I got you._

 

She presses soft kisses on his neck and feels him shift and move, “I got you.” She whispers in his ruined ear. “I got you.”

* * *

He twists and lands on his back, staring at the ceiling and not at her. She lays her head on his chest, leg curling over his, hand underneath his shirt, relishing in the heat of his body.

 

They haven’t said a word since he woke up and she repeated the words to him again and again until he laughed and then cried. She holds him tightly, trying to anchor him in his breakdown.

 

The silence is overwhelming, thoughts swirling in her head. She looks at him, sees his closed eyes and she wonders if he’s sleeping. She studies his breathing and she knows he’s not. He’s just not looking at her and she knows, just knows, that he’s ashamed of what happened. Of losing control.

 

She takes in a deep breath and shifts, until she’s leaning over him, her hair falling over both their faces and enveloping them in a fiery curtain. She leans forward until her forehead is pressed against his and she kisses him, softly, gently.  

 

“Sandor.” She breathes, and she feels him jolt and suck in a breath at his name coming from her mouth and she would say his name a thousand times over if it would always bring that sort of reaction. “I love you.” Her heart is hammering against her chest and she’s sure that he can hear it.

 

He doesn’t say anything, but he does open his eyes and she wants to cry, wants to weep, at the vulnerability in his stormy grey eyes.

 

(She was never afraid of _him_. Not really. She was afraid of his rage, of the fury behind his eyes and even then, she was never really afraid of that, because she knew, just knew, that he would never hurt her.)

 

“I love you. Sandor, _I love you.”_

 

He still doesn’t say anything, doesn’t respond but she can feel his heart beat thunderously as she steadies herself by placing her hands on his chest. Instead, one of his arms wraps around her waist, pulling her flush against him and the other cradles her head and he kisses her like she means the world to him (and maybe, just _maybe_ , she does.) He kisses her so intensely that she feels it from her head to her toes and she hears everything he doesn’t say.

_I love you too, little bird._

 

(And that’s enough for her.)

* * *

Her phone rings shrilly and Sansa reaches over and grabs it, giggling into it as Sandor nuzzles her neck.

 

_“Turn on the news.”_ Arya says, her voice holds a sort of vindication and it makes her frown.

 

“Arya? What happened?” The last time Arya called her to tell her news, it was to say that the development was being burnt to the ground.

 

Arya laughs and it’s bright and light, almost disbelieving and it holds a little bit of triumph, of glee. “ _Just turn on the news.”_

 

There is a small television in Sandor’s room, one that he doesn’t use all that often, but she reaches over and grabs the remote, her phone still pressed to her ear.

 

_“In a tragic and horrifying twist of events, Joffrey Baratheon, upcoming senatorial candidate, eldest son to the late Senator Robert Baratheon, has died. His wife, Margaery Baratheon, has stated that it was a brain aneurysm that went undetected. His mother, Cersei Baratheon, nee Lannister, is devastated and Baratheon’s widow has stated that the family would like to mourn in peace. So tragic, his life cut so short and such a promising future in front him. Our thoughts are with his family.”_

_“Can you believe it?”_ Arya shouts through the phone, laughing hysterically, “ _that fucking piece of shit is dead. He’s dead.”_ She pauses. “ _Pity, I couldn’t have been the one to kill him. Shit.”_ She curses. “ _Sansa, I’ll call you back, Robb’s on the other line.”_ There is a pause and Arya can feel her sister grin through the phone. “ _It’s over, Sansa. It’s all over.”_

 

She hears the dial tone and Sansa hangs up, staring at the screen and then Sandor.

 

They don’t say anything and then Sansa starts laughing. She kneels on the bed, laughing, head tilted back and she can _feel_ it in her stomach.

 

_He’ll get what’s coming to him._

 

“It’s over.” She says, repeating her sister’s words. “It’s all over.”

 

Sandor nods, running a hand through his hair. “Fucking finally.”

 

She opens her mouth, ready to cry or laugh or likely tell him she loves him again and again and again until her voice and is raw and sore when her phone rings a second time. Arya’s name lights up the screen and Sansa frowns as she answers it. “Arya?”

_“You need to come to the hospital.”_ She blurts out, almost shouting into the phone. There is a hitch in her voice and Sansa realizes that Arya is crying and Arya _never_ cries.

 

Sansa climbs off the bed, struggling to put on her shoes. “What happened? Is it dad? Arya?”

 

Arya lets out a laugh and it’s caught in a sob. “ _He’s awake. He’s awake. Fuck me, as if this day can’t get any better, dad’s awake.”_

 

Sansa lets out a gasp and she stumbles backwards as she sobs into the phone, her hand over her mouth and she looks up through wet eyes at Sandor, who is suddenly in front of her. She hangs up on her sister and smiles through her tears. “My dad, he’s awake. Joffrey is dead and my dad is awake.” And that’s all that runs through her head, _Joffrey is dead and my dad is awake. Joffrey is dead and my dad is awake. Joffreyisdeadandmydadisawake._

 

They waste no time in rushing out of the apartment, Sansa bouncing on the balls of her feet. They don’t say anything during the ride to the hospital and he doesn’t follow her into her dad’s room where she joins her siblings, mom and Jon around her father’s bed, tears streaming down all of their faces.

 

But he does wait for her and he squeezes her hand when she reaches out to him, anchoring her in her sudden breakdown. He buries his head in her hair, breathing in her scent and his arms wrap around her waist, keeping her close to him.

 

She hears what he doesn’t say: _I love you, little bird._

 

(And that’s enough for her.)

* * *

“Joffrey is dead. Your father is alive. Stannis is winning the election.” The Elder Brother repeats the facts back to her, ticking them off on his fingers. He stares at her from over his glasses and his eyes are soft, genuine and Sansa can see the happiness in them. “How does this make you feel?”

 

She doesn’t hesitate in answering him, “free.” She tells him. “I feel free.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed! And you thought I'd kill Ned. No way! I love him too much! But seriously, THANK YOU ALL SO SO MUCH!


	9. Part 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For bestrafemich21
> 
> So....there is a wee bit of sex in this chapter....just a head's up.

“We’re rebuilding the complexes.” Sandor tells the Elder Brother as he leans back into the leather couch. “Funny, isn’t it? That little shit is finally dead and suddenly, all the problems we had are gone.”

 

“Are you saying that Joffrey was behind it all?”

 

Sandor snorts and cocks an eyebrow at the Elder Brother. _Of course, Joffrey was behind it,_ he thinks viciously, _he was behind_ _everything_. For a moment, just a _moment,_ there is a slight guilt that gnaws at him because he knew Joffrey when he was a kid. He knew him when he was a chubby little thing always sitting on his mother’s lap, clapping his hands and smiling toothily at him, at everyone.

 

And then Joffrey grew up and became a spoiled and sadistic little bastard.

 

(Sometimes, Sandor thinks he should have taken better care of him, but his job was to keep Joffrey alive, nothing less, and nothing more.)

 

And then he thinks about Sansa and her family and how they have suffered, how _his_ little bird has suffered and the little good memories he has of the Baratheon family, fade away and all he can see is Sansa, bruised, bloodied and broken and in those moments, he wishes he could have been the one to kill him.

 

“Yeah.” Sandor says, “Joffrey was behind it all. Does that surprise you?”

 

The Elder Brother sighs, “not particularly. There was always something…disturbing about him.”

 

Sandor lets out a bark of laughter and sinks deeper into the leather couch, laying his head against the cushion and staring up at the ceiling. “I’m leaving after this job.”

 

“Where will you go?”

 

Sandor shrugs and feels something clench and twist inside of his chest and stomach. “I don’t know. Further west. Maybe north. Fuck, I’d go east. Just not here. It’s too fucking hot here. I always feel like I’m burning.”

 

There is a silence and then the Elder Brother clears his throat and shifts. “What about Sansa Stark?”

 

Sandor sits up and his eyes narrow at the Elder Brother, his hands clenching into the leather beneath him. “What about her?”

 

The Elder Brother gives him a loaded look, as if telling him that he’s known from the start everything that has been happening. “What will she do if you leave?”

 

_If you do leave…take me with you. Take me with you. Takemewithyou_. (That was before, when she was broken and her family was falling apart at the seams, but now…she’s the happiest he’s ever seen her and he knows that he has no place in her life.)

 

“Sandor?” He’s shaken from his thoughts as the Elder Brother calls his name. “What about Sansa Stark?”

 

He blinks and all he can see is red hair and bright blue eyes and her voice, soft and sweet, _I love you. I love you. Iloveyou._

 

“I don’t know.” He admits. “I don’t know.”

 

_If you do leave…take me with you._

* * *

Bronn is grinning at him when he walks into the trailer. Jorah rolls his eyes.

 

“So,” Bronn says, barely a second after Sandor sits down in his chair, “Sansa Stark.”

 

“Fuck off, Bronn.”

 

Bronn laughs, head tilting back and Sandor exchanges a glance with Jorah.

 

“Technically,” Bronn continues, “she is the boss’s daughter. I mean, how much more cliché can you actually get?”

 

“Fuck off, Bronn.”

* * *

“You good?” Jorah asks him as he comes up beside him after the day is done and they’re both sore and tired, dry sweat clinging to them.

 

“Yeah, I’m good.”

 

Jorah nods and turns his head to stare at him and doesn’t push him for anything more.

 

(Jorah never pushes him for anything more and it’s always something that Sandor’s appreciated, even though he’ll never say anything. But, he thinks, as he catches Jorah nod and pat his shoulder in a silent farewell, they’ve never had to say anything to each other before and they likely won’t start now.)

* * *

Work starts to pick up more, Stannis’ campaign gaining more and more attention. He works longer hours and falls into his bed, without much thought to the outside world.

 

Sansa is going through final exams and applying to medical school, while helping her family and spending every waking moment with them.

 

They barely see each other, except for messages and missed phone calls and he uses this as his excuse to not tell her that he’s planning on leaving.

* * *

“Have you told her yet?” The Elder Brother asks him.

 

“No.”

 

“Will you?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

_If you do leave…take me with you._

* * *

The day they finish the complexes, is the day that Stannis Baratheon wins the senatorial election.

 

Bronn pops open a bottle of champagne as he, Jorah and Daenerys watch the acceptance speech on television.

 

“Well,” Bronn says, after taking a gulp of his champagne, “thank God that fucking nightmare is over with.” He looks around and rubs his hands together. “What’s next?”

 

Daenerys blinks and looks up at Sandor, a knowing look in her eyes. “I don’t know…what’s next Sandor?”

 

He shrugs and shoves his phone into his pockets and digs out his keys. “North. West. East. Anywhere but fucking here.”

 

_If you do leave…take me with you._

* * *

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands when she comes into his room. He blinks and looks up at her when she stands in front of him, maneuvering herself between his legs, placing her hands on his shoulders.

 

She gives him a soft smile and leans down, capturing his lips in a gentle kiss and it leaves him _breathless_ , unable to think about anything other than the woman in front of him. “I could have robbed you blind and you wouldn’t have noticed.” She giggles.

 

Doesn’t she know? Doesn’t she fucking understand? She’s _already_ robbed him of _everything_. He would do anything and everything for her.

 

“Sandor?” She calls out, she’s biting her bottom lip and her fingers tighten their hold on his shoulders. “I finished the last exam of my undergrad today.”

 

“You should celebrate, then.”

 

She blushes, her cheeks turning as red as her hair and she steps closer to him, until there isn’t any space between them. “I…” her voice croaks and she lowers her eyes, her lashes fluttering. “I mean to. Celebrate. I mean. Here. With _you_.”

 

He feels like someone has poured hot and cold water over him. He grips her chin and he reminds himself to hold her gently, “little bird, you have no idea what you’re asking.”

 

It’s been _months (forever,_ a voice in the back of his mind that sounds oddly like the Elder Brother, _it feels like forever)_ since they’ve been together. In a relationship. Dating, whatever the fuck she’s calling this and besides kissing and heavy petting, he’s been a _good boy_. He’s kept it in his pants because he knows, he fucking _knows,_ that if they go any farther, she’ll consume him even more than she already has and he’ll never be able to let her go.

 

“I do know what I’m asking.” She’s looking him in the eyes, hands falling from their place on his shoulders and she takes a couple steps backwards, creating space between them and he instantly misses her heat. “I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 

He _knows_ she’s not a virgin. He remembers seeing her bruises and her hollow eyes. He remembers listening to Joffrey gloat and about how tight she was and Sandor remembers wanting to kill him with his bare hands and not for the first time, he regrets not being able to.

 

What he’s worried about is hurting her. He’s not a patient man. He’s not a kind man. He’s not a gentle man, contrary to her beliefs and he knows that he’ll hurt her and he doesn’t think he can hurt her anymore than she’s _already_ been hurt. He will not be the one to add to her pain.  

 

He doesn’t say anything but his heart gets stuck in his throat when she bites her lip, slips out of her flip-flops and reaches for the hem of her shirt, pulling it upwards, over her head and letting it drop to the floor. She’s in a camisole and he can see the peach lace of her bra and he curses himself as he feels the stirring of his cock.

 

Her hands fumble with the button on her shorts and the sound of her zipper as she pulls it down, is so loud in comparison to the silence that overtakes them. She slides her shorts down on her long pale legs and he finds that he’s already hard and he hasn’t even touched her yet.

 

_Fuck,_ he thinks, when she takes off her camisole and stands before him in a matching set of lacy peach underwear and bra, _she has no idea how fucking beautiful she is._

 

She walks towards him and instead of standing between his legs; she pushes him back gently and straddles him, her body flushing with arousal. His hands automatically wrap around her waist to keep her in place. Her skin is smooth and unblemished and he feels like a _monster_ compared to her.

 

He doesn’t stop her when she runs her hands under his shirt and lifts it up, over his head and on the floor, joining her clothes. She places soft kisses on his shoulders, his neck, and his collarbone. They’re open mouth kisses and he feels the heat of her tongue as it brushes against his skin and he shivers.

 

She leans forward, placing her forehead against his and breathes heavily. Her lips are a hair’s breadth away from his and all he wants to is claim her, to possess her, to give her everything she deserves.

 

“You won’t hurt me.” She tells him softly and his body stiffens at the memory that explodes before his eyes.

 

“No, little bird,” he says, his voice tight and hoarse as he tightens his grip on her waist, “I won’t hurt you.”

 

_A hound will die for you, but never lie to you._

* * *

Her moans reach his ears, her legs wrapping around his waist as he thrusts in and out of her. She’s clenching him tightly, her moans turning to whimpers and then cries as she crests higher and higher.

 

“Sandor.” She pants into his neck, breasts pressed against his chest and he slides in and out of her like he’s made for her (and maybe, just _maybe_ , he is), “God. _Sandor._ Oh… _Oh…yes_ …” she lets out a loud cry, a keening wail and he feels her orgasm, back arching, nails digging into his arms. “I love you.” She gasps out, turning her to kiss him. “ _I love you.”_

 

He stops thrusting, body tensing as he stretches above her and he lets out a loud groan as he follows her over the edge, arms shaking as he settles himself atop her, resting his head in the crook of her shoulder, mouth lapping at her sweaty skin.

 

She still tastes of lemons and strawberries with a hint of vanilla and she’s fucking _intoxicating_ and God, his chest explodes with emotion as he feels himself growing limp inside of her.

 

She smiles lazily and sleepily at him and he winces as he pulls out of her, throwing the condom away and resting on his back. She moves closer to him, throwing a leg over his, her wet sex pressing against his thigh.

 

She falls asleep soon after and Sandor remains wide-awake.

 

He pinches the bridge of his nose and stares down at her, her hair damp and darker than it normally is.

 

He _loves_ her. There’s no denying it. He fucking _loves_ her and he would do _anything_ for her. He knows it. She knows it. _Everyone fucking knows it._

 

He pulls her closer to him and buries his head in her neck, breathing in her scent. He mumbles words into her skin, unknowingly and he feels her breath hitch and feels her arms wrap around him, legs tightening against his and he realizes what he mumbles; _I love you, little bird. I love you. Iloveyou._

* * *

In the light of the morning, he remembers an imaginary conversation where he promised her that he would protect her; _I could take you away from here. No one would hurt or I’d kill them. Everyone is terrified of me anyway. I could keep you safe, little bird._

 

And he wonders, bringing his torn and gnarled lips to her shoulders and nipping at her, if she would come with him or if she would deny him. “Sansa,” he whispers into her ear.

 

He kisses her until she wakes up and her body responds so fucking beautifully to his. He pulls away from her and rests his forehead against hers, breathing heavily and heart thundering inside his chest. “I hate this city.”

 

It takes her a moment but he feels her body tense when his meaning sinks in. She turns around in his arms, her blue eyes searching his. She shifts closer to him. “Why didn’t you leave?” She asks quietly and he remembers their conversation at the pizza restaurant and in his truck and he feels his breath get caught in his throat.

 

“Because I couldn’t.”

 

“But now you can?”

 

He sighs and doesn’t say anything, instead, he holds her tighter and thanks whatever Gods that she doesn’t pull away.

 

He can hear her thinking as she runs her hands through his chest hair and she bites her lip, “if you do leave,” she says and this time, it’s without any hesitation, “take me with you.”

_If you do leave…take me with you. Take me with you. Takemewithyou._

 

_(I love you. I love you. Iloveyou.)_

* * *

“Have you told her yet?” The Elder Brother asks him.

 

Sandor nods. “Yeah. I did.”

 

“And?”

 

“She’s coming with me. We’re leaving.”

 

The Elder Brother leans back in his chair and nods. “Good. That’s good.”

 

Sandor nods and gets up. He looks around the room and then his eyes land on the Elder Brother who stares at him with no judgment. Just understanding. “I think we’re done here.”

 

The Elder Brother stands up, placing a wrinkly hand on his shoulder. “We are.” He leans forward and gives him a small smile, “you’re free.”

 

Sandor gives him a small grin, the corner of his lips barely twitching. _So_ , he thinks, _this is what freedom feels like._ “Yeah.” He says. “I guess I am. We’ll…we’ll keep in touch.”

 

“I would like that very much.”

 

Sandor nods stiffly and leaves the Elder Brother’s office, walking through the reception area where Myranda gives him a wave and a nod and promises bodily harm if he ever so much as makes Sansa cry.

 

He walks out the door, down the hall, down the stairs and through the front doors, breathing in the heat and entering the mass of people.

 

It’s when he walks past the coffee shop that was the catalyst for the rest of his (their) life, he breathes deeply and finally manages to disappear within the crowd.

 

_If you do leave…take me with you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to cry. Seriously. You guys are so so so amazing and I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and I have a feeling I'm going to be a slobbering mess when I update the final chapter tomorrow and I just hope I didn't disappoint you guys in this. Your words and support mean the world to me! 
> 
> Thank you all so so so much!


	10. Part 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For bestrafemich21

_“Sansa, it’s Margaery. Call me back.”_

_“It’s Margaery, again. Sansa, I just…call me back.”_

_“Do you remember when Will wanted to marry you? We were so young back then but I was so happy because I thought you could finally be my sister, but Will could never make you happy. And then Joffrey did and then he made you miserable. He hurt you. I hurt you and I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Just…call me back. Please.”_

_You have three messages saved._

* * *

Her father’s voice is raspier than she remembers it and with physical therapy, he’ll be back to how he used to be. Or at least remnants of how he used to be. Sansa doesn’t care. He’s _alive._ That’s all that really matters.

 

She’s biting the end of her pen, staring at her textbook and looking up at her father every now and then as he listens intently to the physical therapist and tries to follow her moves.

 

It’s hard on him and she can see how frustrated he’s getting, so she closes her textbook and gives the physical therapist a glance and she nods, calling it a day, giving him encouraging words as she departs.

 

“You did well today, dad.”

 

He nods absentmindedly and he gets into the wheelchair she offers him. He stares up at her and sighs. “Were you ever going to tell me that you’re seeing Sandor Clegane?”

 

Sansa freezes and she can feel the blood rush out of her face. “I…I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

 

“Sansa,” he says, his shoulders slumping, “he is-”

 

“A good man.” She finishes his sentence. “He’s a good man.”

 

“He’s old.”

 

“You’re older than mom.”

 

“He’s scarred.”

 

“ _I’m_ scarred.”

 

Her dad flinches and Sansa kneels in front of him, grabbing his hands and imploring him to look at her. “Dad.”

 

“He isn’t…he’s not hurting you?”

 

She shakes her head, her throat tightening. She knows he still feels guilty about the entire Joffrey ordeal and she doesn’t think she’ll ever get over what he did and said to her, but she thinks that maybe, just _maybe_ , she’s working her way around it. “He’d never hurt me.”

 

“Your sister hates him.”

 

Sansa lets out a laugh but it comes out more like a sob. “Arya hates everyone.”

 

Her father lets out a chuckle and Sansa squeezes his hands, reassuring him that they’re _here,_ they’re _all right_. They’re _alive._

* * *

“Does it make me a bad person?” She asks the Elder Brother.

 

“What you went through was traumatic and no one should ever have to go through that. You are not an evil person, nor are you vindictive. You would never wish harm on anyone.” He gives her a soft smile, “so to answer your question, _no_ , Sansa. It does not make you a bad person to not feel sad over his death.”

 

Sansa nods and absentmindedly picks at the leather couch. “I used to believe in fairy tales and happy endings. In princes and princesses and knights and riding off in the sunset to live happily ever after and I thought…I thought…maybe, just _maybe_ , Joffrey was my prince charming.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “He turned out to be the monster my old nanny used to tell us about. I stopped believing in happy endings.”

 

The Elder Brother is patient and waits for her to finish. “This…this guy I’ve been seeing, he’s the opposite of Joffrey. He’s bigger, scarier to some and full of rage and anger but he’s…he’s better than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s saved me countless of times and I don’t…I don’t think I’d be _here_ if it weren’t for him. He’s honest where everyone is fake. He’s strong where others are weak. He’s gentle where everyone else has been rough and terrible.”

 

“So, is he your prince charming, then?”

 

Sansa snorts and shakes her head, chuckling. “No. No. He’s…he’s just a man and I don’t think I’d want him any other way.”

 

The Elder Brother nods and stares at her over his glasses, a twinkle in his eyes. “Does Sandor know how much you love him?”

 

Sansa’s head snaps towards him and her mouth falls open, the Elder Brother chuckles. She blushes and scratches at the leather. “I’ve told him.”

 

“Has he said it back?”

 

She shakes her head. “He doesn’t need to. It’s in the way he holds me, the way he kisses me, the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not looking…that’s how I know he loves me and that’s… _that’s_ better than a thousand words and fake princes.”

* * *

_“I know your busy studying and applying for med school but Sansa, I miss you. Please talk to me. It’s Margaery by the way.”_

_Message saved._

* * *

Her chest feels like it’s going to burst and Sansa can’t help but touch him as she curls into him, her naked body pressed against his.

 

She silently marvels at his muscles and strength, memorizing every contour of his body in her mind. She blushes thinking about the sounds she made and the way he made her feel, the way he felt, sliding in and out of her, taking her higher and higher over the precipice until she went toppling over, only to be held tightly in his arms.

 

He doesn’t say anything, just holds her tightly as she lays her head on his chest, breathing in the scent that is purely _Sandor_. She’s in a state of almost sleeping, but not quite, when she feels him shift and bury his head in the crook of her neck. He does this often and the way he kisses her skin, tongue lapping up her sweat, makes her bite her lower lip to stifle her moan.

 

She feels his lips move against her skin and she frowns when she hears him mumble, her breath catching when she finally makes out the words.

 

_Has he said it back?_

 

She feels like she’s going to cry. Or explode. Maybe both.

 

It’s outrageous how much she loves this man.

 

She tightens her arms and legs around him, hugging him to her, letting him feel her heart beating wildly in her chest.

 

_Has he said it back?_

_(I love you, little bird. I love you. Iloveyou._ It’s forever marked on her skin and it’s a mark she will wear proudly.)

* * *

She’s surprised that he’s lasted this long and selfishly, she thinks that he stayed this long, in a city he so obviously hates, because of her.

 

“If you do leave,” she tells him, hands curling into his chest hair, body trembling, “take me with you.”

 

They’re still laying in bed when she asks him where he wants to go and he shrugs, yanking her closer. “Where do you want to go, little bird?”

 

She’s silent before she tilts her head up at him and kisses him. She can’t get enough of him, she thinks she could drown in him and God, maybe she is. Maybe she already is drowning in him. He’s consumed her, possessed every inch of her and she would do it all again in a heartbeat if it would always lead back to this one moment where it’s him and her and their plans for the future away from the place that continually haunts them both.

 

(Some ghosts are not so easy to run from, they both find.)

 

She’s been north and west holds no interest for her. “East.” She tells him, playing with the hairs on his chest. They have medical schools east and she grins with the prospect of starting over.

 

“Then we’ll go east.”

 

She likes the sound of it. So long as it’s nowhere south.

* * *

“Has he said it back?”

 

Sansa nods. “He has.”

 

“How did it make you feel?”

 

She’s silent, grappling for words, how can she tell him that while hearing those words come out of his mouth made her all but stop breathing, it’s about everything _else_ he’s done, that makes her heart continually beat thunderously in her chest? That makes her palms sweat and stomach erupt in butterflies? She bites her lip, sinking deeper into the leather couch and admits to the Elder Brother who has seen them at their worst and come out on the other side of redemption, scarred but alive, “ _He_ makes me believe in happy endings again.”

* * *

When she tells her parents that she’s leaving with Sandor, they stare at her and ask her if she’s sure.

 

She tells them she’s never been more sure of anything in her life.

 

Later that night, she’s not surprised when Arya creeps into her room. She doesn’t say anything, just slips under the covers and rolls onto her side. Sansa turns to face her and they still don’t say anything, though there is _so much_ Sansa wants to say to her younger sister.

 

She opens her mouth and closes it, _so many times_ , but no words come out.

 

Truthfully, Sansa doesn’t think there are any words that can express how much Arya means to her.

 

So instead, Sansa lays her hand, palm up in the middle of the bed and Arya doesn’t hesitate to slip her hand in hers, interlacing their fingers until Sansa isn’t sure where she ends and Arya begins.

 

“Are you happy?” Arya asks her quietly, repeating her question from _so long ago._

 

“I am.” Sansa replies with no hesitation. And she wants to laugh and cry because it’s the _truth_.

 

They don’t say anything else and Sansa finds they don’t really need to. So, they fall asleep like this, hands clasped in the space between them.

 

(In the morning, their hands are still clasped and Sansa doesn’t let go. Instead, she squeezes tighter and even in her sleep, Arya squeezes back.)

* * *

Margaery wears black well.

 

Sansa sits across from her in a coffee shop and they sit in silence.

 

Sansa stares at her, playing the role of the grieving widow convincingly, but there is a glint beneath her eyes that tells Sansa, Margaery always knew not _only_ how to play the game, whatever game they were playing, but how to _win_ it as well. Not for the first time, Sansa wonders if she ever really knew her at all.

 

Sansa clears her throat and takes in a deep breath. “He got what was coming to him.”

 

Margaery nods slowly. “He got what was coming to him.”

 

Not knowing what else to say, Sansa nods and then gets up, giving Margaery a small smile before leaving.

* * *

“We’re leaving.” Sansa tells the Elder Brother.

 

“When?”

 

“Today. Now.” She lets out a small disbelieving laugh. “I…I guess this is it.”

 

The Elder Brother nods. “It is. Are you nervous?”

 

Sansa shakes her head. “No. I’m…I’m happy.” She stands up and wraps her arms around the Elder Brother, hugging him tightly. “Thank you.” She whispers. “For everything.”

 

The Elder Brother gives her another smile, eyes watering and he pulls back, away from her.

 

“We’ll stay in touch. I’ll- _we’ll_ ,” she corrects herself, “never forget you.”

 

“Go.” He urges her.

 

Sansa doesn’t need to be told twice, she opens the door and walks into the reception area, hugging Myranda who’s already crying and telling her to keep in touch. Sansa promises and with a kiss on the cheek, she walks out the door, down the hall, down the stairs and out the front door, into the heat and mass of people.

 

She blends in with the crowd, until she disappears.

* * *

“East?” Sandor asks, as he gets into the truck, buckling up.

 

“East.” Sansa confirms, wiggling in her seat.

 

He starts the truck and drives away. Sansa breathes out when everything they used to know disappears from the rearview mirror.

 

She reaches over and grabs one of his hands, interlacing their fingers until she doesn’t know where she ends and he begins (but somehow, she always knows, that’s it’s going to be _together_.)

 

He grips her hand tighter and she squeezes back.

 

_(We’re free, little bird, we’re free.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it. THIS. IS. IT. I hope that it was everything everyone hoped it would be. You all have no idea how much I have enjoyed reading your reviews. Everything that you have said has carved its special place in my heart and I want to thank every single on of you profusely. I want to thank everyone who has read/favorited/followed/bookmarked/kudos’d/reviewed, EVERYTHING, the fact that you guys are reading and that you enjoy it means so so much to me. 
> 
> Writing this story has been a rollercoaster for me and I want to say a HUGE THANK YOU to bestrafemich21 for her constant and wonderful support and for allowing me to take her prompt and turn it into this story. You guys have no idea how grateful and thankful I am to all of you. 
> 
> THANK YOU ALL SO SO SO SO MUCH!!!! It means the world to me! 
> 
> Someone had messaged me and noticed that I put songs before the chapter starts on FFN and not here and was wondering if I could list the songs, well darling, of course I can! Below, the order goes: what inspired the song and title and the 10 songs that inspired each part respectively, starting with Part 1:
> 
> The song that inspired the story and title:  
> The lights weren't that bright, but our eyes were tired - Industries of the Blind
> 
> Another Story - The Head and the Heart  
> Holding us back - Katie Herzig  
> Fuel to the fire - Agnes Obel  
> Keep breathing - Ingrid Michaelson  
> Raging Fire - Philip Philips  
> Cactus in the Valley - Lights  
> You - Keaton Kenson  
> Look after you - The Fray  
> Stay Alive - Jose Gonzalez  
> Wherever this goes - The Fray
> 
> Fantastic songs and I hope you all enjoyed the final chapter! THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH AGAIN!!!

**Author's Note:**

> A little history to how this story came about: I was surfing the SanSan tag on tumblr when I came across bestrafemich21 post, “In relation to my last post, I am now consumed with the idea of a fic in which Sandor stopped going to therapy in his late teens but after accompanying Joffrey to burn down Stannis’s mansion, his PTSD is badly triggered and he quits working for the Lannister’s and starts seeing a therapist again. One day he walks into the waiting room and sees Sansa sitting there. The last time they saw each other was a year earlier on the night of the fire, after which she broke up with Joff. They end up going for coffee and he discovers that she’s just started therapy to deal with the effects of Joffrey’s abuse. And as they walk their own personal roads to mental health they become increasingly close and….you see where I’m going here.” This of course had my wheels turning and churning and then I finally got the courage to ask bestrafemich21 if I could have the honor and permission to write a story based on this and WAM-BAM, this story came along! 
> 
> So, it is very very AU and has a whole bunch of characters, and it will be switching from PoV, Sandor and then Sansa, etc…, for every chapter. Geographically, speaking, I’m picturing this in California, except you know, with this world we seem to love so much, hehe. If anything seems confusing or unclear, please let me know and I’ll hopefully explain it! Obviously, there are some blanks because we’ve just got Sandor’s side, more will reveal itself on the way!
> 
> I just want to thank you all so so so much for everything and all the support and love and just, you GUYS ARE AWESOME. SO SO AWESOME. 
> 
> Again, any mistakes are mine and mine alone and I apologize if they offend anyone.  
> MAD LOVE AND RESPECT,  
> BB


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